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Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healthy  A\erary  appetites  love  them— almost  all  women ;  a  vast  number 
of  clever,  hard-headed  men.  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians,  arc  notorious  novel  readers,  as 
■well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender  mothers.— W.  M.  TuAOiiEUAv,  iu  Hour  ilaiou'  Papers. 


HARPER'S    LIBRARY 


OF 


SELECT    IsTOA^EL 


Harper's  Select  Library  of  Fiction  rarely  includes  a  work  which  has  not  '>.  decided  charm,  either  from  the 
clearness  of  the  story,  the  signiflcance  of  the  theme,  or  the  charm  of  the  execution;  so  that  on  setting  out 
upon  a  journey,  or  providing  for  the  recreation  of  a  solitary  evening,  one  is  wise  and  safe  in  procuring  the 
Liter  numbers  of  this  attractive  series. — Boston  Transcript. 


4. 

5. 
G. 
7. 
8. 

y. 

10. 

11. 

12. 
13. 
14. 

15. 

IG. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 


PEIOE 

Pelham.     By  Buhver $  7") 

The  Disowned.     By  Buhver 7o 

Devereux.     By  Buhver 50 

Paul  Clitibrd.     By  Buhvec 50 

Eugene  Aram.     13y  Buhver 50 

TheLast  Days  of  Pompeii.    By  Buhver  50 

Tlie  Czarina.     By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

Kienzi.     By  Buhver 75 

Self-Devotion.     By  Miss  Campbell 50 

The  Nabob  at  Home 50 

Ernest  Maltravers.     By  Buhver 50 

Alice  ;  or,  The  Mysteries.     By  Buhver  50 

The  Last  of  the  Barons.     By  Buhver..  1  00 

Forest  Days.     By  James 50 

Adam  Brown,  tlie  Merchant.     By  H. 

Smith 50 

Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.     By  Buhver....  25 

The  Home.     By  IMiss  Bremer 50 

The  Lost  Ship.     By  Captain  Neale 75 

The  False  Heir.     By  James 50 

The  Neighbors.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

Nina.     iJy  Miss  Bremer 60 

The  President's  Daughters.     By  Miss 

Bremer 25 

The  Banker's  Wife.     ]5y  Mrs.  Gore....  50 

The  Birthright.    By  Mrs.  Gore 25 

New  Sketches  of  Every-day  Life.     By 

Miss  Bremer 50 

Arabella  Stuart.     By  James 50 

The  Grumbler.    By  Miss  Pickering. .:,  50 

The  Unloved  One.     By  Mrs.  Hofland.  50 

Jack  of  the  Mill.    By  William  Howitt.  25 

The  Heretic.     By  Liijetchnikoff 50 

Tlie  Jew.    By  Spindler 75 

Arthur.    BySue 75 

Ciiatsworth.     By  Ward 50 

The  Prairie  Bird.     By  C.  A.  Murray.  1  00 

Amy  Herbert.     ByMissSewell 50 

Rose  d'Albret.     By  James 50 

The  Triumphs  of  Time.  By  Mrs.  Marsh'^  75 

The  H Family.     By  Miss  Bremer  50 

The  Grandfather.     By  Miss  Pickering.  50 

Arrah  Neil.     By  James 50 

The  Jilt 50 

Tales  from  the  German 50 

Arthur  Arundel.     By  H.  Smith 50 

Agincourt.     By  James 50 

The  Regent's  Daughter 50 

The  Maid  of  Honor 50 

Safia.     Bv  De  Beauvoir 50 

Look  to  the  End.     By  Mrs.  Ellis 50 

The  Improvisatore.    13y  Andersen 50 

The  Gambler's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

Veronica.     By  Zschokke 50 

Zoe.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 


PRICE 

53.  Wyoming §  50 

54.  De  Rohan.    By  Sue 50 

55.  Self.    By  the  Author  of '•  Cecil" 75 

5G.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise 50 

58.  Parsonage  of  Mora.    By  Miss  Bremer  25 

59.  A  Chance  Medley.    By  T.  C.  Grattan  50 
GO.  The  White  Slave 1  00 

61.  The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

62.  Amaury.     By  Dumas 50 

63.  The   Author's   Daughter.      By  SLiry 

Ilowitt 25 

64.  Only  a  Fiddler !  &c.     By  Andersen....  50 

G5.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 50 

Q'6.  The  Foster-Brother.    Edited  bv  Leigh 

Hunt .' 50 

67.  Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  H.  Smith.  75 

GS.  Ascanio.     Bv  Dumas 75 

G9.  Lady    of    Milan.       Edited    by  JMrs. 

Thomson 75 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  00 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.     ByMts.  Gore.  50 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.  By  Mrs.  Gore  50 

73.  The  Fives,  &c.     By  Tieck 50 

74,75.  The  Step-Mother.     By  James 1  25 

70.  Jessie's  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'Harmental.     By  Dumas.  50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore.  50 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue..  50 

80.  The  Female  Minister ". 50 

•81.  Emiha  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh.  75 

82.  The  Bush-Ranger.     By  Charles  Row- 

croft 50 

83.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

84.  Genevieve.     ByLamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

86.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  Leontine.     By  Mrs.  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 50 

(JO,  Lucretia.     By  Buhver 75 

91,  Beauchamp.     Bv  James 75 

92,94.  Fortescue.    By  Knowlcs I  00 

93.  Daniel  Dennison,&c.  Bv  Mrs.  Holland  50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     ByDeVignv .50 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.     By  James  50 

98.  Marriage.     By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 50 

99.  Roland  CasheL     By  Lever 1  25 

100.  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin,     By  Lever... 1  25 

101.  Russell.     ByJames 50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  Mrs.  Inchbald.,  50 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.    By  Mrs.  Marsh...  50 

104.  Alamance 50 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     ByJames 25 


2920G7 


Harptrs  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


rniOB 
lOG,  The  "Wayside  Cross.     Bv  E.  II.  Wil- 

iniin $  2r, 

107.  The  Convict.     IJyJumes no 

lOS.   MiiisimunerKvc.     15_v  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hull  50 

lii'.l.   Jiine  i:.vio.      l!y  Cun'or  Jiell 75 

lit).   Tiic  Last  of  tlic  Fail  ies.     Ey  James..  25 

ill.  Sir  Tiieocloie  J5rou^;liton.     iJy  James  50 

112.  ^;elt■-Colltrol.     I5y  iMarv  Hrunton 75 

IJ.!.  114.   Harold.     I5y  Huhvcr 100 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.  By  Jliss  Bremer  50 

IKi.  Ciowrie.     By  James 50 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.     By 

James 50 

lis.  Three   Sisters   and  Three   Fortunes. 

BvG.  H.  Lewes..: 75 

1 1'.t.  The  Discipline  of  Life 50 

120.'  Thirty  Years  Since.     ByJ.imes 75 

121.  .Mary'Barton.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

122.  Tlie  Cireat  Iloggarty  Diamond.     By 

Thackeray 25 

12.1.  The  Torgefv.     By  James 50 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.    By  Miss  Bremer  25 

125,  12G.  The  (\ixtons.     By  Buhver 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hal!.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 50 

12l».  The  Woodman.     By  James 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yarn  "  75 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.     By  Meinhold  1  00 

132.  Shirley.     By  Currer  BeU 100 

133.  TheOgilvies 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.    By  G.  C.  H 50 

135.  Sir  Ed>vard  Graham.     By  Miss  Sin- 

clair  1  GO 

13G.  Hands  not  Hearts.     By  Miss  Wilkin- 
son    50 

137.  The  Wilmingtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh..  50 

138.  Ked  Allen.     By  I).  Hannay 50 

13!l.  >.'ight  and  Morning.     ByBulvver 75 

14(1.  The  JMaid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.    By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

142.  Zanoni.     ByBulwer 50 

143.  Eeginald  Hastings.     By  Warburton..  50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Ho^vard.    By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell.  50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.      Edited  by  Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

148.  Petticoat  Government.    By  Mrs.  Trol- 

lope .'50 

^140..  The  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.  N.  By  Hannay  50 

151.  Olive.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Ogil- 

vies"  50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh.  50 

154.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  00 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By  Mrs.  liubback  50 
\r>^u  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.     By  Fullom.  50 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  Hon.  Caro- 

line Norton 50 

159.  .Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  E.  H. 

Milman ." 50* 

IfiO.  The  Fate.     By  James 50 

IGl I'he  Lady  and  the  Priest.     By  Mrs. 

Maberly 50 

■1€2.  Aims  and  (Jhstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 50 

^iCTj  Florence  S.ackyille.    By  Mrs.  Burbury  75 

Cj3u  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

16©.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 1  00 


yfl.  TIio  Head  of  the  Family.     By  Miss 

Mulock %  75 

105*  Darien.     By  Warburton 50 

I(5l>.  Falkenburg 75 

VM-.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 150 

-t?4^Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts  -  Boy.     By  Miss 

Carlen 50 

172.''Pequinillo.     By  James 60 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     By  Temme 50 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitudes.     By  James...  50 

Hfl".  Henry  Esmond.     By  Thackeray 50 

174V177.  My  Novel.     ByBulwer 1  50 

178.  Katie  Stewart 25 

rr^.  Castle  Avon.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

ISO.  Agnes  Sorel.     By  James 50 

J^.  Agatha's  Husband.     By  the  Author  of 

"Ohve" 50 

i«2r.  Villette.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

I'StJr  Lover's  Stratagem.  By  Miss  Carlen.  50 
184.  Clouded    Happiness.       By   Countess 

D'Orsay 50 

185;  Charles  Auchester.    A  Memorial 75 

IW.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 

im.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever... .1  25 

188.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lever 75 

189.  Quiet  Heart 25 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

WT.  Ticonderoga.     By  James 50 

,,^88.  Hard  Times.     By  Dickens 50 

42a)  The  Young  Husband.  By  Mrs.  Grey  60 
^^.  The  Mother's  Becompense.    By  Grace 

Aguilar 75 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 1  25 

196.  North  and  South.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  60 
WT.  Country  Neighborhood.    By  Miss  Du- 

puy 50 

498.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jews- 
bury 60 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton,     By  Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

■fieOr  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 50 

201.  John   Halifax.      By  the   Author  of 

"Olive,"  &c 75 

-2G2.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh....  60 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.     By  Lever 50 

,204..  Leonora  d'Orco.     By  James 50 

^205.} Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

^2et?I  TheRoseofAshurst.    By  Mrs.  Marsh  50 

207.  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant....  75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  25 
2j0,  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.  By  Lever...  60 
2ii?.  A  Life  for  a  Life.  By  Miss  Mulock..  50 
^iS;  Sword  and  Gown.  By  Geo.  Lawrence  25 
214^  Misrepresentation.       By    Anna    H. 

■■ — ^    Drurv 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George 

Eliot 76 

216.  One  of  Them.     By  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.     By  Lever 60 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.     By  Wills 50 

A  Strange  Story 1  00 

Brown,  Jones,   and   Robinson.      By 

Trollope 60 

Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  Saun- 
ders    75 

322^  Olive  Blake'K  Good  Work.     By  J.  C.         J 

JeaflFreson 75/ 

2T3.  The  Professor's  Lady 25' 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock  5C 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon..  7, 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PKIOE 

~226.  Barrington.     By  Lever $75 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.'   ByMrs.  Gaskell....  75 

228.  A  First  Friendship 50 

-^a.  A   Dark  Night's   Work.      By  Mrs. 

Gaskell 50 

Countess  Gisella.     By  E.  Marlitt 25 

St.  Olave's 75 

A  Point  of  Honor 50 

23^  Live  it  Down.     ByJeaffreson 1  00 

Martin  Bole.     By  Saunders 50 

J3;gJ  Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Bonsonby.  50 

.23G.  Eleanor's  Victory.   By  M.'E.  Braddon  75 

237.  Rachel  Kay.     By  TroUope 50 

-2Zi).  John  ]\Iarchmont's  Legacy.      By  M. 

y—^     E.  Braddon 75 

re3^  Annie    Warleigh's     Fortunes.      By 

^^     Holme  Lee 75 

;^^  The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 50 

■-Sk*  Barbara's   History.      By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

24*.  What  Will  He  Do  With  It  ?    By  Bul- 

.1,      wer 1  50 

■:^20  The  Ladder  of  Life.     By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 50 

-2f5.  Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray 50 

Maurice  Dering.     By  Geo.  Lawrence  50 

Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

Quite  Alone.     By  George  Augustus 

Sala 75 

Mattie  :   a  Stray 75 

^'oO^'  Mv  Brother's  'Wife.     By  Amelia  B. 

^-*""        Edwards 50 

"T&X.  Uncle  Silas.     ByJ.  S.  LeFanu 75 

3&S.  Lovel  the  Widower.     By  Thackeray. .  25 
^53.  I\Iiss  Mackenzie.     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope 50 

_;gg:^  On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

{  2^^  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

8w*.  Denis  Doone.     By  Annie  Thomas. ...  50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carrv's  Confession 75; 

-g5^  Miss"  Carew.       By  Amelia   B.    Ed- 
wards    50 

-S«dr  Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Ed- 
wards   50 

26L   GuyDeverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu....  50 
*4J^.  Half  a  Million  of  Money.     By  Amelia 

B.  Edwards 75 

253.  The    Belton    Estate.      By  Anthony 

Trollope 50 

-2fii.  Agnes.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

"88s»  Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas..  75 
S66-.  Maxwell  Drewitt.      By  Mrs.   J.   H. 

Bidden 7.-, 

"iOT^  TheToilersof  theSea.  By  Victor  Hugo  75 
aee.  I\Iis3   Marjoribanks.     By  Mrs.   Olip- 

"               hant 50 

/2C^  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin. 

^— -^     By  James  Greenwood 50 

<^?0>  Gilbert  Rugge.   By  the  Author  of  "A 

First  F"riendship  " 1  00 

-dft;  Sans  Merci.     Bv  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

«^  Fhemie  Keller.  By^Irs.  J.  H.  Riddell  50 

?T3?  Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Yates....  50 
-af^rFelix  Holt,  the  Radical.     By  George 

^^..—  ^     Eliot 75 

(27^  Bound  to  the  Wheel.     By  John  Saun- 
ders    75 

27G.  All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu.  50 

,^i?7  Kissing  the  Rod.     ^^  Edmund  Yates  75 


psf^he  Race  for  Wealth.    By  Mrs.  J.  H. 

,.^A   Riddell $  75 

^79,  Lizzie  Lorton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs. 

Linton 75 

"280.  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.    Bv 

C.  Clarke .'.  50 

-^S\.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles 

Lever 50 

?85.  Madonna  Mary.     Bv  Mrs.  Oliphant  .  50 
2»5.  Cradock  NoweU.     J3y  R.  D.  Black- 
more 75 

2M.  Bernthal.     From  the  German  of  L. 

Miihlbach 50 

285.  Rachel's  Secret 75 

24>€.  The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trol- 
lope    50 

a§7.  The  Village  on  the  Clitf.     By  Miss 

Thackeray 25 

e#»«  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

2§:3^ Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

'290.^Sowing    the    Wind.      By   E.    Lynn 

"-^"    Linton 50 

291.  Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 50 

22^  Raymond's  Heroine £0 

'^93^')]Mr'   Wynyard's  Ward.      By  Holme 

—'"      Lee 50 

-2^4'.'  Alec  Forbes.     By  George  Macdonald  75 
2'Ojyi  No  ]Man's  I'riend.     By  1\  W.  Robin- 
son   75 

296^.  Called  to  Account.    By  Annie  Thomas  50 

"297.  Caste 50 

20'5;  The  Curate's   Discipline.      By  IMrs. 

._^      Eiloart 50 

j?90.  Circe.     By  Babington  White 50 

3Q0^  The  Tenants  of  JMalory.     By  J.  S.  Le 

^     Fanu ■  50 

^0^  Carl von's  Year.     By  James  Payn 25 

Sm.  The  Waterdale  Neighbors 50 

303.  Mabel's  Progress .'■>0 

304'.  Guild  Court.     By  Geo.  Macdonald...  50 

30^.,  The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen.  25 
oOij.  Playing  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie 

Thomas.     Hhistrated 25 

3QJL  Margaret's  Engagement 50 

SbS;  One  of  the  Family.     By  James  Payn.  25 

309.  I'ive  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.     By 

^     a  Barrister 50 

310.  Brownlows.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 38 

311.  Charlotte's    Inheritance.      Sequel    to 

"Birds  of  Prey."     By  Miss  Braddon  50 

312.  Jeanie's  Quiet  Life.     By  the  Author 

of  "St.  Olave's" 50 

313.  Poor  Humanity.    By  i".  W.  Robinson  50 

311:.  Brakespeare.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

315.^  A  Lost  Name.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu. ...  50 

3 1 G.}  Love  or  IMarriagc  ?     By  W.  ]51ack. ...  50 

317.  Dead- Sea  Fmit.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

318.  The  Dower  House.   By  Annie  Thomas  50 
3  Id."  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.  By 

Lever 50 

320.  Mildred.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik....  50 

321.  Nature's  Nobleman.     By  tne  Author 

of  "Rachel's  Secret" 50 

322^  Kathleen.     By  the  Author  of  "Ray- 
mond's Heroine" 50 

323.  That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     By  Charles 

Lever 25 

324.  In  Silk  Attire.     By  W.  Black 50 

325.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley 25 

32G>  False  Colors.     Bv  Annie  Thomas 60 


Harpers  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PBIOS 

.327^Mcta's  Fnith.    Bv  the  Author  of  "  St. 

oiiivc"s" ; $  no 

*N*r  l\)iiiul  Dead.     IJy  James  ravn .00 

jSatr  Wrecked  ill  I'ovt. '   IJy  Kdmuiid  Yates  50 
(^^^'Y\\^  .Minister's  Wife."    By  Mrs.  Oli- 

-^      lih:uU 75 

S3U-'A  Hc'jgar  on  Horseback.     By  James 

rayu 35 

Kitty.     By  M.  Bctham  Edwards 50 

3jliJl  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas  ....  50 

llircll.     By  John  ijauiiders 50 

>Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 50 

jG?\fSo  Buns  the  World  Away.     By  Mrs. 

^     A.  (.'.  i?teele .'. 50 

(3i}7.  Batlled.     By  Julia  Goddard 75 

,3^.    Beneath  the' Wheels 50 

f'33^.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson  50 
!]Jpi9.  Gwendoline's    Harvest.       By    James 

Pavn 25 

Si+t  Kilnieny.     By  William  Black 50 

.aJ^.  Jolin:   A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Oli- 

phaut 50 

313.  True  to  Herself.  By  F.  W.  Kobinson  50 
311.   Veronica.     By  the  Author  of  '"Ma- 

bel's  Progress" 50 

315.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author 

of  "Gilbert  Uugge" 50 

3-i6-.-- Estelle  Russell 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.     By  the  Author 

"".',       of  "  Raymond's  Heroine  " 50 

_3iS.' Which  is'the  Heroine  ^ 50 

•*Aft.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer 

Collins m 

350.     In  Duty  Bound.      Blustrated 50 

14WT.  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers. 

By  A.  TroUope 75 

-3i5tJ'.   From  Thistles  —  Grapes?      By  Mrs. 

Kiloart 50 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

183^. ^^ir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Hijmblethwaite. 

^,^.      By  Antiiony  Trollope.     Blustrated."..  50 

''T(^55y  Earl's  Dene.     By  R.  E.  Francillon....  50 

35G.  Daisy  Nichol.     By  Lady  Hardy 50 

357.  Bred  in  the  Bone.     By  James  Payn..  50 

358.  Fenton's  Quest.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing  -  Lane.     By  W. 

Black.     Illustr.ated 50 

3G0.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Rid- 

dell 50 

3!ii»>  Anteros.      By  the  Author  of  "  Guy 

Livingstone" 50 

3G2.  Her  Lord  and  Master.    By  Mrs.  Ross 

Church .50 

303.  Won— Not  Wooed.     Bv  James  Pavn  50 

3C4.  For  Lack  of  Gold.    ByChas.  Gibbon  50 

3G5.  Anne  Furness 75 

3(;G.  A  D.iughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black.  .'50 

3C7.  Durnton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollope.  50 

3G8.  Joshua  Marvel.  By  B.  L.  Farjeon...  40 
3G9.  Levels  of  Arden.    By  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Illustrated 75 

370.  Fair  to  See.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart.  75 

371.  Cecil's  Trvst.     Bv  James  Pavn 50 


372.  Patty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid...^  50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas....     25 

374.  Grif.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glass.  By  F.W.  Robinson     50 
3r<»r'A-tbcrt  Lunel.     By  Lord  Brougham..     75 

377.  A    Good    Investment.       By  William 

Fliigg 50 

378.  A  Golden  Sorrow.      By  Mrs.  Cashel 

Hoey .50 

370.  Ombra.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

380.  Hope  Deferred.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard    60 
38L  The  Maid  of  Sker.     By  R.  D.  Black- 
more 75 

382.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon...     50 

383.  A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Tales. 

ByJ'.  W.  Robinson 50 

384.  Dr."  Wainwright's  Patient.      By  Ed- 

mund Yates 50 

385.  A   Passion   in    Tatters.      By   Annie 

Thomas 75 

3SG.  A  Woman's  Vengeance.     By  James 

P.-iyn 50 

387.  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 

By  William  Black 75 

388.  To  the  Bitter  End.     By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 7.5 

3S0.  Robin  Gray.     Bv  Charles  Gibbon 50 

S^'^^i-erwiolphin.'     Bv'Bulwer 50 

391.  Leila.     By  Bufwer 50 

392r-K«Helm  Chillingly.     By  Lord  Lytton.     75 

393.  The  Hour  and  the  Slan.     By  Ilariiet 

Martineau 50 

394.  Murphy's  Master.     By  James  Paj-n...     25 

395.  The  2\ew  JMagdalen.     By  Wilkie  Col- 

lins      50 

39G.    "  'He  Cometh  Not,'  She  Said."     By 

Annie  Thomas 50  1 

397.  Innocent.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illus- 

trated      75 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 50 

399.  Strangers    and    Pilgrims.      By  Miss 

Braddon 75 

400.  A  Simpleton.     By  Charles  Reade 50 

401.  The  Two  Widows.    By  Annie  Thomas     50 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew 50 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.     By  F. 

W.  Robinson .TO 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thule.     By  W.  Black.     75 

405.  Lottie  Darling.     By  J.  C.  Jcaft'reson.     75 
40G.  The  Blue  Ribbon.     By  the  Author  of 

"St.  Olave's" 50 

407.  Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil.    By  An- 

thony Trollope 25 

408.  Publicans  and  Sinners.     By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 75 

409.  Colonel  Dacre.      By  the  Author  of 

"Caste"  50 

410.  Through  Fire  and  Water.     By  Fred- 

erick Talbot 25 

411.  Lady    Anna.       By    Anthony    Trol- 

lope       50 

412.  Taken  at  the  Flood.     By  Miss  Brad- 

don       IT) 

413.  At  Her  Mercy.     By  James  Payn 50 


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p, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOW   DID   HE   GET   IT? 

"IcAN  never  bringmyself  to  believe  it,  John," 
^  said  Mary  Walker,  the  pretty  daughter  of  Mr. 
'  George  Walker,  attorney  of  Silverbridge.  Walk- 
er and  Winthrop  was  the  name  of  the  firm,  and 
they  were  respectable  people,  who  did  all  the 
solicitors'  business  that  had  to  be  done  in  that 
part  of  Barsetshire  on  behalf  of  the  Crown,  were 
employed  on  the  local  business  of  the  Duke  of 
Omnium,  who  is  great  in  those  parts,  and  alto- 
gether held  their  heads  up  high,  as  provincial 
lawyers  often  do.  They — the  Walkers — lived 
in  a  great  brick  house  in  the  middle  of  the  town, 
gave  dinners,  to  which  the  county  gentlemen 
not  unfrcquently  condescended  to  come,  and  in 
a  mild  way  led  the  fashion  in  Silverbridge.  "I 
can  never  bring  myself  to  believe  it,  John,"  said 
Miss  Walker. 

"  You'll  have  to  bring  yourself  to  believe  it," 
said  John,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  his 
book. 

"A  clergyman — and  such  a  clergyman,  too ! " 

"I  don't  see  that  that  has  any  thing  to  do 

with  it."     And  as  he  now  spoke  John  did  take 

Tiis  eyes  oft'  his  book.     "Why  should  not  a 

',  clergyman  turn  thief  as  well  as  any  body  else  ? 


You  girls  always  seem  to  forget  that  clergymen 
are  only  men  after  all." 

"Their  conduct  is  likely  to  be  better  than  that 
of  other  men,  I  think." 

"I  deny  it  utterly,"  said  John  Walker.  "I'll 
undertake  to  say  that  at  this  moment  there  are 
more  clergymen  in  debt  in  Barsetshire  than  there 
are  either  lawyers  or  doctors.  This  man  has 
always  been  in  debt.  Since  he  has  been  in  the 
county  I  don't  think  he  has  ever  been  able  to 
show  his  face  in  the  High  Street  of  Silver- 
bridge." 

"John,  that  is  saying  more  than  you  have  a 
right  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"Why,  mother,  this  very  check  was  given  to 
a  butcher  who  had  threatened  a  few  days  before 
to  post  bills  all  about  the  county,  giving  an  ac- 
count of  the  debt  that  was  due  to  him,  if  the 
money  was  not  paid  at  once." 

"More  shame  for  Mr.  Fletcher,"  said  Mary. 
"He  has  made  a  fortune  as  butcher  in  Silver- 
bridge." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  Of  course  a 
man  likes  to  have  his  money.  He  had  written 
three  times  to  the  bishop,  and  he  had  sent  a  man 
over  to  Hogglestock  to  get  his  little  bill  settled 
six  days  running.  Yon  see  he  got  it  at  last. 
Of  course  a  tradesman  must  look  for  his  njoney." 

"Mamma,  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Crawley 
stole  the  check  ?"  Mary,  as  she  asked  the  ques- 
tion, came  and  stood  over  her  mother,  looking 
at  her  with  anxious  eyes. 

"I  would  rather  give  no  opinion,  my  dear." 

"  But  you  must  think  something  when  every 
body  is  talking  about  it,  mamma." 

"Of  course  my  mother  thinks  he  did,"  said 
John,  going  back  to  his  book.  "  It  is  impossi- 
ble that  she  should  think  otherwise." 

"That  is  not  fair,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Walker; 
"and  I  won't  h.ive  you  fabricate  thoughts  for 
me,  or  put  the  expression  of  them  into  my 
mouth.  The  whole  affair  is  very  painful,  and 
as  your  father  is  engaged  in  the  inquiry  I  think 
that  the  less  said  about  the  matter  in  this  house 
the  better.  I  am  sure  that  that  would  be  your 
father's  feeling." 

"  Of  course  I  should  say  nothing  about  it  be- 
fore him,"  said  Mary.  "I  know  that  papa  does 
not  wish  to  have  it  talked  about.  But  how  is 
one  to  help  thinking  about  such  a  thing?  It 
would  be  so  terrible  for  all  of  us  who  belong  to 
the  Church." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  at  all, "  said  John.  "  Mr. 
Crawley  is  not  more  than  any  other  man  just 


10 


Tyi;  LAST  CHRONICr.E  OF  BARSET. 


because  he's  i\  elcr^'yiu;in.  I  linlGAll  tliat  kipJ 
of  ilap-tra]).  There  nro  a  lot  of  people  here  in 
Silverliritlye  who  think  the  matter  shotiKln't  he 
fullowed  up.  just  heeause  the  man  is  in  a  ])osi- 
tion  which  makes  the  crime  more  criminal  in 
him  tluin  it  wouKl  he  in  anotlier." 

"IJnt  I  feel  sure  that  ^Ir.  (.'rawley  has  com- 
mitted no  crime  at  all,"  said  Mary. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walker,  "  I  have  just 
said  that  I  would  rather  yon  would  not  talk 
about  it.     Tapa  will  he  in  directly." 

"I  won't,  mamma;  only — " 

"  Only  I  yes ;  just  only !"  said  John.  "She'd 
po  on  till  dinner  if  any  one  would  stay  to  hear 
her." 

''  You've  said  twice  as  much  as  I  have,  John." 
But  John  had  left  tiio  room  before  his  sister's 
last  words  could  reach  him. 

"You  know,  mamma,  it  is  quite  impossible 
not  to  help  thinking  of  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,  my  dear." 

"And  when  one  knows  the  people  it  does 
make  it  so  dreadful." 

"But  do  you  know  them?  I  never  spoke 
to  Mr.  Crawley  in  my  life,  and  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  saw  her." 

"I  knew  Grace  very  well — when  she  used  to 
come  first  to  ^liss  Prettyman's  school." 

"Poor  girl !     I  pity  her." 

"  Pity  her !  Pity  is  no  word  for  it,  mamma. 
My  heart  bleeds  for  them.  And  yet  I  do  not 
believe  for  a  moment  that  he  stole  the  check. 
How  can  it  be  possible?  For  though  he  may 
have  been  in  debt  because  they  have  been  so 
very,  very  poor,  yet  we  all  know  that  he  has 
been  an  excellent  clergyman.  When  the  Ro- 
bartsos  were  dining  hero  last  I  heard  Mrs.  Ro- 
barts  say  that  for  piety  and  devotion  to  his  du- 
ties she  had  hardly  ever  seen  any  one  equal  to 
him.  And  the  Robartses  know  more  of  them 
than  any  body." 

"They  say  that  the  dean  is  his  great  friend." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  the  Arabins  should 
be  away  just  now  when  he  is  in  such  trouble!" 
And  in  this  way  the  mother  and  daughter  went 
on  discussing  the  question  of  the  clergyman's 
guilt  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Walker's  previously  ex- 
pressed desire  that  nothing  more  might  be  said 
about  it.  But  Mrs.  Walker,  like  many  other 
mothers,  was  apt  to  be  more  free  in  converse 
with  her  daughter  than  she  was  with  her  son. 
While  they  were  thus  talking  the  father  came 
in  from  his  office,  and  then  the  subject  was 
dropjjcd.  Ho  was  a  man  between  fifty  and  sixty 
years  of  age,  with  gray  hair,  rather  short,  and 
somewhat  corpulent,  hut  still  gifted  with  that 
amount  of  personal  comeliness  which  comforta- 
ble position  and  the  respect  of  others  will  gen- 
erally seem  to  give.  A  man  rarely  c.irries  him- 
self meanly  whom  the  world  holds  high  in  es- 
teem. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  my  dear, "  said  Jlr.  Walker. 

"You  look  tired.  Come  and  sit  down  for  a 
fjw  minutes  before  you  dress.  Mary,  get  your 
Aither's  slippers."  Mary  instantly  ran  to  the 
door. 


. ,  i'  Thanks,  my  darling,"  said  the  father.  A 
then  he  whispered  to  his  wife,  as  soon  as  Maiy 
was  out  of  hearing,  "I  fear  that  unfortunate 
anan  is  guilty.     I  fear  he  is  I     I  fear  he  is  !" 

"Oh,  Heavens  !  what  will  become  of  them  ?" 

"  What,  indeed  ?  She  has  been  with  me  to- 
day." 

"Has  she?  And  what  could  you  say  to 
her?" 

"  I  told  her  at  first  that  I  could  not  see  her, 
and  begged  her  not  to  speak  to  me  about  it.  I 
tried  to  make  her  understand  that  she  should 
go  to  some  one  else.     But  it  was  of  no  use." 

"And  how  did  it  end?" 

"  I  a.sked  her  to  go  in  to  you,  but  she  declined. 
She  said  you  could  do  nothing  for  her." 

"And  docs  she  tliink  her  husband  guilty?" 

"No  indeed.  She  think  him  guilty!  No- 
thing on  earth — or  from  he.iven  either,  as  I 
take  it — would  make  her  sujipose  it  to  be  possi- 
ble. She  came  to  nic  simply  to  tell  me  how 
good  he  was." 

"  I  love  her  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"  So  did  I.  But  what  is  the  good  of  loving 
her?  Thank  you,  dearest.  I'll  get  your  slip- 
pers for  you  some  day,  perhaps." 

The  whole  county  was  astir  in  this  matter  of 
this  alleged  guilt  of  the  Reverend  Josiah  Craw- 
ley— the  whole  county,  almost  as  keenly  as  the 
family  of  Mr.  Walker,  of  Silverbridge.  The 
crime  laid  to  his  charge  was  the  theft  of  a  check 
for  twenty  pounds,  which  he  was  said  to  have 
stolen  out  of  a  j)ocket-book  left  or  droj)ped  in 
his  house,  and  to  have  passed  as  money  into 
the  hands  of  one  Fletcher,  a  butcher  of  Silver- 
bridge,  to  whom  he  was  indebted.  Mr.  Craw- 
ley was  in  those  days  the  perpetual  curate  of 
Ilogglestock,  a  parish  in  the  northern  extremity 
of  East  Barsetshire  ;  a  man  known  by  all  who 
knew  any  thing  of  him  to  be  very  poor — an  un- 
happy, moody,  disappointed  man,  upon  whom 
the  troubles  of  the  world  always  seemed  to  come 
with  a  double  weight.  But  he  had  ever  been 
respected  as  a  clergyman  since  his  old  fiiend 
Mr.  Arabin,  the  dean-of  Barehester,  had  given 
him  the  small  incumbency  which  he  now  held. 
Though  moody,  unhappy,  and  disappointed,  he 
was  a  hard-working,  conscientious  pastor  among 
the  poor  people  w^ith  whom  his  lot  was  cast;  for 
in  the  parish  of  Hogglcstock  there  resided  only 
a  few  farmers  higher  in  degree  than  field  labor- 
ers, brickmakcrs,  and  such  Hke.  ]Mr.  Crawley 
had  now  passed  some  ten  years  of  his  life  at 
Ilogglestock ;  and  during  those  years  he  had 
worked  very  hard  to  do  his  duty,  struggling  to 
teach  the  peojile  around  him  perhaps  too  much 
of  the  mystery,  but  something  also  of  the  com- 
fort, of  religion.  That  he  had  become  popular 
in  his  parish  can  not  be  said  of  him.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  make  himself  popular  in  any  posi- 
tion. I  have  said  that  he  was  moody  and  disap- 
pointed. He  was  even  worse  than  this ;  ho  was 
morose,  sometimes  almost  to  insanity.  There 
had  been  days  in  which  even  his  wife  had  found 
it  impossible  to  deal  with  him  otherwise  than  as 
with  an  acknowledged  lunatic.     And  this  was 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


11 


known  among  the  farmers,  who  talked  about 
their  clergyman  among  themselves  as  though  he 
were  a  madman.  But  among  tlie  very  poor, 
among  the  brickmakers  of  Iloggle  End — a  law- 

'  less,  drunken,  terribly  rough  lot  of  humanity — 
he  was  held  in  higli  respect ;  for  they  knew  that 
he  lived  hardly,  as  they  lived  ;  that  he  worked 
hard,  as  they  worked ;  and  that  the  outside 
world  was  hard  to  him,  as  it  was  to  them  ;  and 
there  had  been  an  apparent  sincerity  of  godliness 
about  the  man,  and  a  manifest  struggle  to  do  his 
duty  in  spite  of  the  world's  ill-usage,  which  had 
won  its  way  even  with  the  rough ;  so  that  Mr. 
Crawley's  name  had  stood  high  with  many  in 
his  parish,  in  spite  of  the  unfortunate  peculiarity 
of  his  disposition.  This  was  the  man  who  was 
now  accused  of  stealing  a  check  for  twenty 
pounds. 

But  before  the  circumstances  of  the  alleged 
theft  are  stated  a  word  or  two  must  be  said  as 
to  Mr.  Crawley's  family.  It  is  declared  that  a 
good  wife  is  a  crown  to  her  husband,  but  JNIrs. 
Crawley  had  been  much  more  than  a  crown  to 

'  him.  As  had  regarded  all  the  inner  life  of  the 
man — all  that  portion  of  his  life  which  had  not 
been  passed  in  the  pulpit  or  in  pastoral  teaching 
— she  had  been  crown,  throne,  and  sceptre  all 
in  one.  That  she  had  endured  with  him  and 
on  his  behalf  the  miseries  of  poverty  and  the 
troubles  of  a  life  which  had  known  no  smiles,  is 
perhaps  not  to  be  alleged  as  much  to  her  honor. 
She  had  joined  herself  to  him  for  better  or  worse, 
.and  it  was  her  manifest  duty  to  bear  such  things ; 
wives  always  have  to  bear  them,  knowing  when 
they  marry  that  they  must  take  their  chance. 
Mr.  Crawley  might  have  been  a  bishop,  and 
Mrs.  Crawley,  when  she  married  him,  perhaps 
thought  it  probable  that  such  would  be  his  for- 
tune. Instead  of  that  he  was  now,  just  as  he 
was  approaching  his  fiftieth  year,  a  perpetual 

!  curate,  witli  an  income  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds  per  annum — and  a  family.  That 
had  been  Mrs.  Crawley's  luck  in  life,  and  of 
course  she  bore  it.  But  she  had  also  done  much 
more  than  this.  She  had  striven  hard  to  be  con- 
tented, or,  rather,  to  appeartobe  contented,  when 
he  had  been  most  wretched  and  most  moody. 
She  had  struggled  to  conceal  from  him  her  own 
conviction  as  to  his  half  insanity,  treating  him 
at  the  same  time  with  the  respect  due  to  an  hon- 
ored father  of  a  family,  and  with  the  careful 
measured  indulgence  fit  for  a  sick  and  wayward 
child.  In  all  the  terrible  troubles  of  their  life 
her  courage  had  been  higher  than  his.  The 
metal  of  which  she  was  made  had  been  temper- 
ed to  a  steel  which  was  vety  rare  and  fine,  but 
the  rareness  and  fineness  of  which  he  had  failed 
to  appreciate.  He  had  often  told  her  that  she 
was  without  pride,  because  she  had  stooped  to 
receive  from  others,  on  his  behalf  and  on  be- 
half of  her  children,  things  which  were  very 
needful,  but  which  she  could  not  buy.  He  had 
told  her  that  she  was  a  beggar,  and  tliat  it  was 
better  to  starve  than  to  beg.  She  had  borne 
the  rebuke  without  a  word  in  reply,  and  had  then 
begged  again  for  him,   and  had  endured   the 


starvation  herself.  Nothing  in  their  poverty 
had,  for  years  past,  been  a  shame  to  her ;  but 
every  accident  of  their  poverty  was  still,  and 
ever  had  been,  a  living  disgrace  to  him. 

They  had  had  many  children,  and  three  were 
still  alive.  Of  the  eldest,  Grace  Crawley,  we 
shall  liear  much  in  tlie  coming  stoiy.  She  was 
at  this  time  nineteen  years  old,  and  there  were 
those  who  said  that,  in  si)ite  of  her  poverty,  her 
shabby  outward  apparel,  and  a  certain  thin,  un- 
fledged, unrounded  form  of  person,  a  want  of 
fullness  in  the  lines  of  her  figure,  she  was  the 
prettiest  girl  in  that  part  of  the  world.  She  was 
living  now  at  a  school  in  Silverbridge,  where  for 
the  last  year  she  had  been  a  teacher ;  and  there 
were  many  in  Silverbridge  who  declared  that 
very  briglit  prospects  were  opening  to  her — that 
young  jNIajor  Grantly  of  Cosby  Lodge,  who, 
thougli  a  widower  with  a  young  child,  was  the 
cynosure  of  all  female  eyes  in  and  round  Silver- 
bridge,  had  found  beauty  in  her  thin  face,  and 
that  Grace  Crawdey's  fortune  was  made  in  the 
teeth,  as  it  were,  of  the  prevailing  ill-fortune  of 
her  family.  Bob  Crawley,  who  was  two  years 
younger,  was  now  at  Marlbro'  School,  from 
whence  it  was  intended  that  he  should  proceed 
to  Cambridge,  and  be  educated  there  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  godfather,  Dean  Arabin.  In  this 
also  the  Avorld  saw  a  stroke  of  good  luck.  But 
then  nothing  was  lucky  to  Mr.  Crawley.  Bob, 
indeed,  who  had  done  very  well  at  school,  might 
do  well  at  Cambridge — might  do  great  things 
there.  But  Mr.  Crawley  would  almost  have 
preferred  that  the  boy  should  work  in  the  fields, 
than  tliat  he  should  be  educated  in  a  manner  so 
manifestly  eleemosynary.  And  then  his  clothes! 
How  was  he  to  be  provided  with  clothes  fit  either 
for  school  or  for  college?  But  the  dean  and 
Mrs.  Crawley  between  them  managed  this, 
leaving  Mr.  Crawley  very  much  in  the  dark,  as 
Mrs.  Crawley  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  him. 
Then  there  was  a  younger  daughter,  Jane,  still 
at  home,  who  passed  her  life  between  her  mo- 
ther's work-table  and  her  father's  Greek,  mend- 
ing linen  and  learning  to  scan  iambics — for 
j\Ir.  Crawley  in  his  early  days  had  been  a  ripe 
scholar. 

And  now  there  had  come  upon  them  all  this 
terribly-crushing  disaster.  That  poor  Mr.  Craw- 
ley had  gradually  got  himself  into  a  mess  of  debt 
at  Silverbridge,  from  which  he  was  quite  unable 
to  extricate  himself,  was  generally  known  by  all 
the  world  both  of  Silverbridge  and  Hogglestock. 
To  a  great  many  it  was  known  that  Dean  Ara- 
bin had  paid  money  for.  him,  very  much  con- 
trary to  his  own  consent,  and  that  he  had  quar- 
reled, or  attempted  to  quarrel,  with  the  dean  in 
consequence — had  so  attempted,  although  the 
money  had  in  part  passed  through  his  own 
hands.  There  had  been  one  creditor,  Fletcher, 
the  butcher  of  Silverbridge,  who  had  of  late  been 
specially  hard  upon  poor  Crawley.  This  man, 
who  had  not  been  without  good  nature  in  his 
dealings,  had  heard  stories  of  the  dean's  good- 
will and  such  like,  and  had  loudly  expressed 
his  opinion  that  the  perpetual  curate  of  Hog- 


12 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


plcstock  would  show  a  higher  pride  in  allowing 
liiinself  to  be  indebted  to  a  rieli  brother  clcrgy- 
i;i:in,  than  in  remaining  under  thrall  to  a  buttli- 
er.  And  tluis  a  rumor  had  grown  up.  And 
then  the  butcher  had  written  rejjcated  letters  to 
the  bishoi> — to  Bishdj)  rroudie  of  Barehester, 
who  hail  at  first  caused  his  chaplain  to  answer 
tlieni,  and  had  told  Mr.  Crawley  somewhat 
roundly  what  was  his  opinion  of  a  clergyman 
who  ate  meat  and  did  not  pay  for  it.  But  no- 
thing that  tiic  bishop  could  say  or  do  enabled 
Mr.  Crawley  to  pay  the  butcher.  It  was  very 
grievous  to  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Crawley  to  re- 
ceive these  letters  from  such  a  man  as  Bishop 
I'roudic  ;  but  the  letters  came,  and  made  fester- 
ing wounds,  but  then  there  was  an  end  of  them. 
And  at  last  there  had  come  forth  from  the 
butcher's  shop  a  threat  that  if  the  money  were 
not  paid  by  a  certain  date  printed  bills  should 
be  posted  about  the  county.  All  who  heard 
of  this  in  Silverbridgc  were  very  angry  with  Mr. 
Fletcher,  for  no  one  there  had  ever  known  a 
tradesman  to  take  such  a  step  before ;  but 
Fletcher  swore  that  he  would  persevere,  and 
defended  himself  by  showing  that  six  or  seven 
months  since,  in  the  S])ring  of  the  year,  Mr. 
Crawley  had  been  paying  money  in  Silver- 
bridge,  but  had  paid  none  to  him — to  him  who 
had  been  not  only  his  earliest,  but  his  most  en- 
during creditor.  "  He  got  money  from  the 
dean  in  March,"  said  Mr.  Fletcher  to  Mr.  Walk- 
er, "and  he  paid  twelve  pounds  ten  to  Green, 
and  seventeen  pounds  to  Grobury,  the  baker." 
It  was  that  seventeen  pounds  to  Grobury,  the 
baker,  for  flour,  which  made  the  butcher  so  fix- 
edly determined  to  smite  the  poor  clergyman 
hip  and  thigh.  "And  he  paid  money  to  Hall, 
and  to  Mrs.  Holt,  and  to  a  deal  more ;  but  he 
never  came  near  my  shop.  If  he  had  even 
shown  himself,  I  would  not  have  said  so  much 
about  it."  And  then  a  day  before  the  date  named 
Mrs.  Crawley  had  come  to  Silverbridge,  and  had 
paid  the  butcher  twenty  pounds  in  four  five- 
pound  notes.  So  for  Fletcher  the  butcher  had 
been  successful. 

Some  six  weeks  after  this  inquiry  began  to 
be  made  as  to  a  certain  check  for  twenty  pounds 
drawn  by  Lord  Lufton  on  his  bankers  in  Lon- 
don, which  check  had  been  lost  early  in  the 
spring  by  Mr.  Soames,  Lord  Lufton's  man  of 
business  in  Barsetshire,  together  with  a  pocket- 
book  in  which  it  had  been  folded.  This  pock- 
et-book Soames  had  believed  himself  to  have 
left  at  jNIr.  Crawley's  house,  and  had  gone  so 
far,  even  at  the  time  of  the  loss,  as  to  express 
his  absolute  conviction  that  he  had  so  left  it. 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  paying  a  rent-charge  to 
Mr.  Crawley  on  behalf  of  Lord  Lufton,  amount- 
ing to  twenty  pounds  four  shillings,  every  half 
year.  Lord  Lufton  held  the  large  tithes  of 
Hogglestock,  and  paid  annually  a  sum  of  forty 
pounds  eight  shillings  to  the  incumbent.  This 
amount  was,  as  a  rule,  remitted  punctually  by 
Mr.  Soames  through  the  post.  On  the  occasion 
now  spoken  of,  he  had  had  some  reason  for  vis- 
iting Hogglestock,  and  had  paid  the  money  per- 


sonally to  Mr.  Crawley.  Of  so  much  there  was 
no  doubt.  But  he  had  paid  it  by  a  check  drawn 
i)y  himself  on  his  own  bankers  at  Barchcster, 
and  that  check  had  been  cashed  in  the  ordina- 
ry way  on  the  next  morning.  On  returning  to 
his  own  house  in  Barchcster  he  had  missed  his 
pocket-book,  and  had  written  to  Mr.  Crawley  to 
make  inquiry.  There  had  been  no  money  in 
it  beyond  the  check  drawn  by  Lord  Lufton  for 
twenty  pounds.  Mr.  Crawley  had  answered 
this  letter  by  another,  saying  that  no  ])ocket- 
book  had  been  found  in  his  house.  All  this 
had  ha])j)cned  in  Alarch. 

In  October,  Mrs.  Crawley  paid  the  twen- 
ty jjounds  to  Fletcher,  the  butcher,  and  in  No- 
vember Lord  Lufion's  clieck  was  traced  back 
through  the  Barchcster  bank  to  Mr.  Crawley's 
hands.  A  brickmakcr  of  Hoggle  End,  much 
^favored  by  Mr.  Crawley,  had  asked  for  change 
over  the  counter  of  this  Barchcster  bank — not, 
as  will  be  understood,  the  bank  on  which  l]ic 
check  was  drawn — and  had  received  it.  The 
accommodation  had  been  refused  to  the  man  at 
first,  but  when  he  presented  the  check  the  second 
day,  bearing  Mr.  Crawley's  name  on  the  back  of 
it,  together  with  a  note  from  Mr.  Crawley  him- 
self, the  money  had  been  given  for  it ;  and  the 
identical  notes  so  paid  had  been  given  to 
Fletcher,  the  butcher,  on  the  next  day  by  jNIrs. 
Crawley.  When  inquiry  was  made,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley stated  that  the  check  had  been  paid  to  him 
by  Mr.  Soames,  on  behalf  of  the  rent-ciiarge 
due  to  him  by  Lord  Lufton.  But  the  error  of 
'this  statement  was  at  once  made  manifest. 
There  was  the  check,  signed  by  Mr.  Soames 
himself,  for  the  exact  amount — twenty  pounds 
four  shillings.  As  he  himself  declared,  he  had 
never  in  his  life  paid  money  on  behalf  of  Lord 
Lufton  by  a  check  drawn  by  his  lordship.  The 
check  given  by  Lord  Lufton,  and  which  had 
been  lost,  had  been  a  private  matter  between 
them.  His  lordship  had  simply  wanted  change 
in  his  pocket,  and  his  agent  had  given  it  to  him. 
Mr.  Crawley  was  speedily  shown  to  be  altogeth- 
er wrong  in  the  statement  made  to  account  for 
possession  of  the  check. 

Then  he  became  very  moody  and  would  say 
nothing  further.  But  his  wife,  who  had  known 
nothing  of  his  first  statement  when  made,  came 
forward  and  declared  that  she  believed  the  check 
for  twenty  pounds  to  be  a  part  of  a  present  given 
by  Dean  Arabia  to  her  husband  in  April  last. 
There  had  been,  she  said,  great  heart-burnings 
about  this  gift,  and  she  had  hardly  dared  to 
speak  to  her  husband  on  the  subject.  An  ex- 
ecution had  been  threatened  in  the  house  by 
Grobury,  the  baker,  of  which  the  dean  had 
heard.  Tiien  there  had  been  some  scenes  at 
the  deanery  between  her  husband  and  the  dean 
and  ^Irs.  Arabin,  as  to  which  she  had  subse- 
quently heard  much  from  Mrs.  Arabin,  Mrs. 
Arabin  had  told  her  that  money  had  been  given 
— and  at  last  taken.  Indeed,  so  much  had  been 
very  apparent,  as  bills  had  been  paid  to  the 
amount  of  at  least  fifty  pounds.  When  the 
threat  made  by  the  butcher  had  reached  her 


tHE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


13 


Mr..   AND   MRS.  CKAWI.EY. 


husband's  ears,  the  effect  upon  Iiim  had  been 
very  grievous.  All  this  was  the  stoiy  tokl  by 
Mrs.  Crawley  to  iNIr.  Walker,  tlie  lawyer,  when 
lie  was  pushing  his  inquiries.  She,  poor  wo- 
man, at  any  rate  told  all  that  she  knew.  Her 
husbard  h.ad  told  her  one  morning,  when  the 
butcher's  threat  was  weighing  heavily  on  his 
mind,  speaking  to  her  in  such  a  humor  that  she 
found  it  impossible  to  cross-question  him,  that 
he  had  still  money  left,  though  it  was  money 
which  he  had  hoped  that  he  would  not  be  driven 


to  use ;  and  he  had  given  her  the  four  five- 
pound  notes,  and  had  told  her  to  go  to  Silver- 
bridge  and  satisfy  the  man  who  was  so  eager 
for  his  money.  She  had  done  so,  and  had  felt 
no  doubt  that  the  money  so  forthcoming  had 
been  given  by  the  dean.  That  was  the  story 
as  told  by  Mrs.  Crawley. 

But  how  could  she  explain  her  husband's 
statement  as  to  the  check,  which  had  been 
shown  to  he  altogether  false?  All  this  jiassed 
between   ]Mr.  Walker  and  Mrs.  Crawley,  and 


14 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


tlni  lawyer  was  very  pontic  witli  her.     In  the 

lirst  stages  of  tlie  incjuiry  lie  had  sinijily  desircil 

to  learn  tlie  truth,  and  idaoe  the  clergyman  above 

susjiieion.      Latterly,  b^ing  bound  as  he  was  to 

tollow  the  matter  up  ollieially,  he  would  not 

have  seen  Mrs.  C'rawley,  liad  he  been  alilc  to 

escape  that  lady's  iin])ortunity.      "  Mr.  AValk- 

cr,"  slie  had  said,  at  last,  "you  do  not  know  my 

husband.      No  one  knows  him  but  I.      Itisliard 

to  liave  to  tell  you  of  all  our  troubles."      "If  I 

can  less.'u  them,  trust  nic  that  I  will  do  so," 

said  ilie  lawyer.      "No  one,  I  tliink,  can  lessen 

them  in    this   world,"  said   the   lady.     "The 

truth  is,  Sir,  that  my  husband  often  knows  not 

what   he  says.      AViicn  he  declared    that   the 

money  had  been  paid  to  him  by  Mv.  Soames, 

most  certainly  he  thouglit  so.     Tlicre  arc  times 

when  in  his  misery  he  knows  not  what  he  says 

— when  he  forgets  every  thing." 

Up  to  this  period  Mr.  Walker  had  not  sus- 
pected Mr.  Crawley  of  any  thing  dishonest, "nor 

did  he  sus])ect  him  as  yet.     The  ])oor  man  had 

jtrobably  received  the  money  from  the  dean,  and 

had  told  the  lie  about  it,  not  choosing  to  own 

that  he  had  taken  money  from  his  rich  friend,  and 

tliinking  that  tlierc  would  be  no  further  Inquiry. 

He  had  been  very  foolisii,  and  that  would  be 

the  end  of  it.     Jlr.  Soames  was  by  no  means  so 

good-natured  in  his  belief.      "How  sliould  my 

jiocket-book  luivegotinto  Dean  Arabin'shands?" 

said  Jlr.  Soames,  almost  triumj'liantly.     "And 

then  I  felt  sure  at  the  time  that  I  had  left  it  at 

Crawley's  house!' 

3Ir.  Walker  wrote  a  letter  to  tlic  dean,  who 

at  that  moment  was  in  Florence  on  his  way  to 

Rome,  from  whence  he  was  going  on  to  the 
Holy  Land.  There  came  back  a  letter  from 
]\Ir.  Arabin,  saying  that  on  t!ie  17th  of  March 
he  had  given  to  I\Ir.  Crawley  a  sum  of  fifty 
])0unds,  and  that  the  payment  had  been  made 
with  five  Bank  of  England  notes  often  pounds 
each,  which  had  been  handed  by  him  to  his 
friend  in  the  library  at  the  deanery.  The  letter 
was  very  short,  and  may,  perhaps,  be  described 
as  having  been  almost  curt.  Mr.  Walker,  in 
his  anxiety  to  do  the  best  he  could  for  Mr. 
Crawley,  had  simply  asked  a  question  as  to  the 
nature  of  tlie  transaction  between  the  two  gen- 
tlemen, saying  that  no  doubt  the  dean's  answer 
would  clear  u])  a  little  mystery  which  existed  at 
present  respecting  a  check  for  twenty  pounds. 
The  dean  in  answer  simply  stated  the  fact  as  it 
has  been  given  above;  but  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Crawley  begging  to  know  what  was  in  truth 
this  new  difficulty,  and  offering  any  assistance 
in  his  power.  He  explained  all  the  circum- 
stances of  tlie  money,  as  he  remembered  them. 
The  sum  advanced  had  certainly  consisted  of 
(ifty  pounds,  and  there  had  certainly  been  five 
Bank  of  England  notes.     He  had  put  the  notes/anco  of  Major  Grantly  of  Cosby  Lodge, 'before 


into  an  enveloj)e,  which  he  had  not  closed,  but 


in  the  Holy  Land,  and  meet  him  in  Italy  on 
his  return.  As  she  was  so  much  nearer  at 
hand,  the  dean  expressed  a  hope  that  Mrs. 
Crawley  would  ai)ply  to  her  if  there  was  any 
trouble. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Walker  was  conclusive  as 
to  the  dean's  money.  Mr.  Crawley  had  not 
received  Lord  Lufton's  check  from  the  dean. 
Then  whence  had  he  received  it?  The  poor 
wife  was  left  by  the  lawyer  to  obtain  further  in- 
formation from  her  husband.  Ah,  who  can  tell 
how  terrible  were  the  scenes  between  that  poor 
pair  of  wretches,  as  tiic  wife  endeavored  to  learn 
the  trutli  from  her  miserable,  half- maddened 
husband!  That  her  husband  had  been  honest 
throughout  she  had  not  any  shadow  of  doubt. 
She  did  not  doubt  that  to  her,  at  least,  he  en- 
deavored to  tell  the  truth,  as  far  as  his  j)oor 
racked  imperfect  memory  would  allow  him  to 
remember  what  was  true,  and  what  was  not  true. 
The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the  husband  de- 
clared that  he  still  believed  that  the  money  had 
come  to  him  from  the  dean.  lie  had  kept  it 
by  him,  not  wishing  to  use  it  if  he  conld  help  it. 
He  had  forgotten  it,  so  he  said  at  times,  having 
understood  from  Arabin  that  he  was  to  have 
fifty  pounds,  and  having  received  more.  If  it 
had  not  come  to  him  from  the  dean,  then  it  had 
been  sent  to  him  by  the  Prince  of  Evil  for  his 
utter  undoing;  and  there  were  times  in  which 
he  seemed  to  think  that  such  had  been  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  fatal  check  had  reached  him. 
In  all  that  he  said  he  was  terribly  confused,  con- 
tradictory, unintelligible — speaking  almost  as  a 
madman  might  speak — ending  always  ])y  de- 
claring that  the  cruelty  of  the  world  had  been 
too  much  for  him,  that  the  waters  were  meeting 
over  his  head,  and  praying  for  God's  mercy  to 
remove  him  from  the  world.  It  need  hardly  be 
said  that  his  poor  wife  in  these  days  had  a  bur- 
den on  her  shoulders  that  was  more  than  enough 
to  crush  any  woman. 

She  at  last  acknowledged  to  Mr.  Walker  that 
'she  could  not  account  for  the  twenty  pounds. 
She  herself  would  write  again  to  the  dean  about 
it,  but  she  hardly  hoped  for  any  further  assist- 
ance there.  "  The  dean's  answer  is  very  ])lain,'' 
said  Mr.  Walker.  "He  says  that  he  gave  Mr. 
Crawley  five  ten-pound  notes,  and  those  five 
notes  we  have  traced  to  Mr.  Crawley's  hands." 
Then  Mrs.  C-'rawley  could  say  imiliiiig  further 
beyond  making  protestations  of  her  husband's 
innocence. 


CHAPTER  IL 

BY    HEAVENS,  HE    HAD    BETTER    NOT  ! 

I  MUST  ask  the  reader  to  make  the  hcquaint- 


he  is  introduced  to  the  family  of  Mr.  Crawley, 


had  addressed  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  had  placed  i  at  their  parsonage  in  Ilogglestock.     It  has  been 
this  envelope  in  his  friend's  hands.     He  went    said  that  Major  Grantly  had  thrown  a  favorable 


on  to  say  that  Mrs.  Arabin  would  have  written, 
but  that  she  was  in  Paris  with  her  son.  IMrs. 
Arabia  was  to  remain  in  Paris  during  his  absence 


eye  on  Grace  Crawley — by  which  report  occa- 
sion was  given  to  all  men  and  women  in  those 
parts  to  hint  that  the  Ciawleys,  with  all  their 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


piety  and  Imniilit^v,  were  very  cunninp:,  and  that 
one  of  tlie  Graiitl ys  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
very  soft,  admitted  as  it  was  tlirougliout  the 
county  of  Barsetshire  that  there  was  no  family 
therein  more  widely  awake  to  the  affairs  gen- 
erally of  this  world  and  the  next  combined 
than  the  family  of  which  Archdeacon  Grantly 
was  the  respected  head  and  patriarch.  Mrs. 
Walker,  the  most  good-natured  woman  in  Sil- 
vcrbridge,  had  acknowledged  to  her  daughter 
that  she  could  not  understand  it — that  she  could 
not  see  any  thing  at  all  in  Grace  Crawley,  ilr. 
Walker  had  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  ex- 
pressed a  confident  belief  that  Major  Grantly 
had  not  a  shilling  of  his  own  beyond  his  half- 
pay  and  his  late  wife's  fortune,  which  was  only 
six  thousand  pounds.  Others,  who  were  ill- 
natured,  had  declared  that  Grace  Crawley  was 
little  better  than  a  beggar,  and  that  she  could 
not  possibly  have  accpiired  the  manners  of  a 
gentlewoman.  Fletcher,  the  butcher,  had  won- 
dered whether  the  major  would  pay  his  future 
father-in-law's  debts  ;  and  Dr.  Tempest,  the  old 
rector  of  Silverbridge,  whose  four  daughters 
were  alh  as  yet  unmarried,  had  turned  up  his 
old  nose,  and  had  hinted  that  half-pay  majors 
did  not  get  caught  in  marriage  so  easily  as  that. 

Such  and  such  like  liad  been  the  expressions 
of  the  opinion  of  men  and  women  in  Silver- 
bridge.  But  the  matter  had  been  discussed 
further  afield  than  at  Silverbridge,  and  had 
been  allowed  to  intrude  itself  as  a  most  un- 
welcome subject  into  the  family  conclave  of  the 
archdeacon's  rectory.  To  those  who  have  not 
as  yet  learned  the  fact  from  the  public  charac- 
ter and  well-appreciated  reputation  of  the  man, 
let  it  be  known  that  Archdeacon  Grantly  was 
at  this  time,  as  he  had  been  for  many  yeai-s  pre- 
viously, Archdeacon  of  Barchester  and  Rector 
of  Plumstead  Episcojii.  A  rich  and  prosperous 
man  he  had  ever  been — though  he  also  had  had 
his  sore  troubles,  as  we  all  have — his  having 
arisen  chiefly  from  want  of  that  higher  ecclesi- 
astical jiromotion  which  his  soul  had  coveted, 
and  for  which  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  had 
especially  fitted  him.  Now,  in  his  green  old 
age,  he  had  ceased  to  covet,  but  had  not  ceased 
to  repine.  He  had  ceased  to  covet  aught  for 
himself,  but  still  coveted  much  for  his  children  ; 
and  for  him  such  a  marriage  as  this  which  was 
now  suggested  for  his  son  was  encompassed  al- 
most with  the  bitterness  of  death.  "  t  think  it 
would  kill  me,"  he  had  said  to  his  wife;  "by 
Heavens,  I  think  it  would  be  my  death  !" 

A  daugliter  of  the  archdeacon  had  made  a 
splendid  matrimonial  alliance — so  splendid  that 
its  history  was  at  the  time  known  to  all  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  county,  and  had  not  been  alto- 
gether forgotten  by  any  of  those  who  keep  them- 
selves well  instructed  in  tiie  details  of  the  peer- 
age. Griselda  Grantly  had  married  Lord  Dum- 
bello,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Hartletoji 
— than  whom  no  Englisli  nobleman  was  more 
puissant,  if  broad  acres,  many  castles,  high  title, 
and  stars  and  ribbons  arc  anv  signs  of  puissance — 
and  she  was  now  herself  Marchioness  of  Hartle- 


top, withalittle Lord Dumbello of herown.  The 
daughter's  visits  to  the  parsonage  of  her  father 
were  of  necessity  rare,  such  necessity  having  come 
from  her  own  altered  sphere  of  life.  A  Mar- 
chioness of  Hartletop  has  special  duties  which 
will  hardly  permit  her  to  devote  herself  frequent- 
ly  to  the  humdrum  society  of  a  clerical  father 
and  mother.  That  it  would  be  so,  father  and 
mother  had  understood  when  they  sent  the  for- 
tunate girl  forth  to  a  higher  world.  But  now 
and  again,  since  her  august  marriage,  she  had 
laid  her  coroneted  head  upon  one  of  the  old  rec- 
tory pillows  for  a  night  or  so,  and. on  such  oc- 
casions all  the  Plumsteadians  had  been  loud  in 
praise  of  her  condescension.  Now  it  happened 
that  when  this  second  and  more  aggravated  blast 
of  the  evil  wind  reached  the  rectory — the  renew- 
ed waft  of  the  tidings  as  to  Major  Grantly's  in- 
fatuation regarding  Miss  Grace  Crawley,  which, 
on  its  renewal,  seemed  to  bring  with  it  some- 
thing of  confirmation — it  chanced,  I  say,  that  at 
that  moment  Griselda,  Marchioness  of  Hartle- 
top, was  gracing  the  paternal  mansion.  It  need 
hardly  be  said  that  the  father  was  not  slow  to 
invoke  such  a  daughter's  counsel  and  such  a 
sister's  aid. 

I  am  not  quite  sure  that  the  mother  would 
have  been  equally  quick  to  ask  her  daughter's 
advice  had  she  been  left  in  the  matter  entirely 
to  her  own  propensities.  Mrs.  Grantly  had  ever 
loved  her  daughter  dearly,  and  had  been  very 
proud  of  that  great  success  in  life  which  Griselda 
had  achieved ;  but  in  late  years  the  child  had 
become,  as  a  woman,  separate  from  the  mother, 
and  there  had  arisen,  not  unnaturally,  a  break 
of  that  close  confidence  which  in  early  years  had 
existed  between  them.  Griselda,  Marchioness 
of  Hartletop,  was  more  than  ever  a  daughter  to 
the  archdeacon,  even  though  he  might  never  see 
her.  Nothing  could  rob  him  of  the  honor  of 
such  a  progeny — nothing,  even  though  there  had 
been  actual  estrangement  between  them.  But 
it  was  not  so  with  Mrs.  Grantly.  Griselda  had 
done  very  well,  and  Mrs.  Grantly  had  rejoiced  ; 
but  she  had  lost  her  child.  Now  the  major,  who 
had  done  well  also,  though  in  a  much  lesser  de- 
gree, was  still  her  child,  moving  in  tiie  same 
spliere  of  life  witli  lier,  still  dependent  in  a  great 
degree  upon  his  father's  bounty,  a  neighbor  in 
the  county,  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  parsonage, 
and  a  visitor  who  could  be  received  without  any 
of  that  trouble  which  attended  tiie  unfrequent 
comings  of  Griselda,  the  marchioness,  to  the 
home  of  her  youth.  And  for  this  reason  Mrs. 
Grantly,  terribly  put  out  as  she  was  at  the  idea 
of  a  marriage  between  her  son  and  one  standing 
so  poorly  in  the  world's  esteem  as  Grace  Craw- 
ley, would  not  have  brought  forward  the  matter 
before  her  daughter  had  she  been  left  to  her 
own  desires.  A  marchioness  in  one's  family  is 
a  tower  of  strength,  no  doubt ;  but  tlierc  are 
counselors  so  strong  that  we  do  not  wish  to  trust 
them,  lest  in  the  trusting  we  ourselves  be  over- 
whelmed by  their  strength.  Now  Mrs.  Grantly 
was  by  no  means  willing  to  throw  her  influence 
into  the  hands  of  her  titled  daughter. 


IG 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


But  the  titloil  ilnughter  was  consulted  and 
gave  her  advice.  ( )ii  tlio  oecjision  of  the  i)resLMit 
visit  to  I'hunstcnd  she  had  consented  to  lay  her 
head  for  two  nij;hts  on  the  par.sonn<;o  jjillows, 
and  on  the  second  evening  her  hrothcr,  the  nia- 
ji)r,  was  to  come  over  from  Coshy  Lodjje  to  meet 
her.  Before  hi.s  coniin;^  the  all'air  of  Grace 
Crawley  was  discussed. 

"It  would  hreak  my  heart,  Griselda,"  said  the 
archdeacon,  piteously — "and  your  mother's." 

"There  is  nothing  against  the  jjiirl's  charac- 
ter," said  Mrs.  CJrantly,  "and  tlie  father  and 
mother  are  gentlefolks  hy  birth  ;  but  such  a  mar- 
riage for  Henry  would  he  very  unseemly." 

'•To  make  it  worse,  there  is  this  terrible  story 
about  him,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  I  don't  suj>i)osc  tlierc  is  much  in  that,"  said 
Jlrs.  Grantly. 

"  I  can't  say.  Tiiere  is  no  knowing.  They 
told  me  to-day  in  Barchcster  that  Soames  is 
jiressiny;  the  case  a;^ainst  liim." 

"Who  is  Soaines,  pajja?"  asked  the  mar- 
chioness. 

"  He  is  Lord  Lufton's  man  of  business,  my 
dear." 

"O!),  Lord  Lufton'sman  of  businessi''  Tlicre 
^'.■as  sonietliing  of  a  sneer  in  the  tone  of  the 
lady's  voice  as  sbc  mentioned  Lord  Lufton's 
name. 

' '  I  am  told,"  continued  the  archdeacon,  "  that 
Soames  declares  the  check  was  taken  from  a 
pocket-book  whicli  he  left  by  accident  in  Craw- 
ley's house." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  archdeacon,  that 
you  think  tliat  Mr  Crawley — a  clergyman — 
stole  it !"  said  iMrs.  Grantly. 

"  I  don't  say  any  tiling  of  the  kind,  my  dear. 
Eat  supposing  Mv.  Crawley  to  be  as  honest  as 
the  sun,  you  wouldn't  wish  Henry  to  marry  his 
daughter." 

"  Certainly  not, "said  the  motlier.  "  It  would 
le  an  unfitting  marriage.  The  poor  girl  has 
had  no  advantages." 

"  He  is  not  able  even  to  pay  his  baker's  bill. 
I  always  tliought  Arabin  was  very  wrong  to 
place  such  a  man  in  such  a  parish  as  Hoggle- 
stock.  Of  course  the  family  could  not  live 
there."  The  Arabin  here  spoken  of  was  Dr. 
Arabin,  dean  of  Barchcster.  The  dean  and 
tlie  archdeacon  had  married  sisters,  and  there 
was  much  intimacy  between  the  families. 

"After  all  it  is  only  a  rumor  as  yet,"  said 
JIrs  Grantly. 

"  Fothergill  told  mc  only  yesterday  that  he 
sees  her  almost  every  day,"  said  the  fatlier. 
"What  are  we  to  do,  Griselda?  You  know 
how  headstrong  Henry  is."  The  marchioness  sat 
quite  still,  looking  at  the  fire,  and  made  no  im- 
mediate answer  to  this  address. 

"There  is  nothing  for  it  but  that  you  should 
tell  him  what  you  think,"  said  the  mother. 

"  If  his  sister  were  to  speak  to  him  it  might 
do  much,"  said  the  archdeacon.  To  this  iNIrs. 
Grantly  said  nothing;  but  Mrs.  Grantly's  daugh- 
ter understood  very  well  that  her  mother's  con- 
lidencc  in  her  was  not  equal  to  her  father's. 


Lady  Ilartletop  said  nothing,  but  still  sat,  with 
impassive  face,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire. 
"  I  think  that  if  you  were  to  speak  to  him,  Gri- 
selda, and  tell  him  that  he  would  disgrace  his 
family,  he  would  be  ashamed  to  go  on  with  sucb 
a  marriage,"  said  tiic  father.  "  He  would  feel, 
connected  as  he  is  with  Lord  Ilartletop — " 

"I  don't  think  he  would  feel  any  thing  about 
that,"  said  JNIrs.  Grantly. 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Lady  Ilartletop. 

"I  am  sure  he  ought  to  feel  it,"  said  the  fa- 
ther. They  were  all  silent,  and  sat  looking  at 
the  fire. 

"  I  su])pose,  papa,  you  allow  Henry  an  in- 
come," said  Lady  Hartletoj),  after  a  while. 
'    "  Indeed  I  do — eight  hundred  a  year  " 

"Then  I  think  I  should  tell  him  that  that 
must  depend  upon  his  conduct.  INIamma,  if 
you  won't  mind  ringing  the  bell,  I  will  send  for  . 
Cecile,  and  go  xij)  stairs  and  dress."  Then  the 
marchioness  went  up  stairs  to  dress,  and  in 
about  an  hour  the  major  arrived  in  his  dog-cart. 
He  also  was  allowed  to  go  up  st:iirs  to  dress  be- 
fore any  thing  was  said  to  him  about  his  great 
offense. 

"Griselda  is  right,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
speaking  to  his  wife  out  of  his  dressing-room. 
"  She  always  was  right.  I  never  knew  a  young 
woman  with  more  sense  than  Griselda." 

"But  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  in  any 
event  you  would  stop  Henry's  income?"  Mrs. 
Grantly  also  was  dressing,  and  made  reply  out 
of  her  bedroom. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know.  As  a  father 
I  would  do  atiy  thing  to  jircvent  such  a  mar- 
riage as  that." 

"  But  if  he  did  marry  her  in  spite  of  the 
threat  ?     And  he  would  if  he  had  once  said  so." 

"  Is  a  father's  word,  tiien,  to  go  for  nothing? 
and  a  father  who  allows  his  son  eight  hundred 
a  year?  If  he  told  the  girl  that  he  would  be 
ruined  she  couldn't  hold  him  to  it." 

"  My  dear,  they'd  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
you  would  give  way  after  three  months." 

"  But  why  should  I  give  way  ?  Good  Heav- 
ens— !" 

"  Of  course  you'd  give  way,  and  of  course  we 
should  have  the  young  woman  here,  and  of 
course  we  should  make  the  best  of  it." 

The  idea  of  having  Grace  Crawley  as  a 
daughter  at  the  Plumstead  Rectory  was  too 
much  for  the  archdeacon,  and  he  resented  it  by 
additional  vehemence  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
and  a  nearer  personal  approach  to  the  wife  of 
his  bosom.  All  unaccoutred  as  he  was,  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  between  the  two  rooms, 
and  thence  fuliuinated  at  his  wife  his  assur- 
ances that  he  would  never  allow  himself  to  be 
immersed  in  such  a  depth  of  humility  as  that 
she  had  suggested.  "  I  can  tell  you  tliis,  then, 
that  if  ever  she  comes  here  I  shall  take  care  to 
be  away.  I  will  never  receive  her  here.  You 
can  do  as  you  jilease." 

"  Tliat  is  just  what  I  can  not  do.  If  I  could 
do  as  I  pleased  I  would  put  a  stop  to  it  at 
oucc." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


17 


"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  wnnt  to  enconrage 
liim.     A  child  about  sixteen  years  of  age  !" 

'•I  am  told  she  is  nineteen." 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  she  was  fift^'-nine? 
Tliiiik  of  what  her  bringing  np  has  been.  Think 
what  it  woukl  be  to  iiavc  all  the  Crawleys  in 
our  house  forever,  and  all  their  debts,  and  all 
their  disgrace!" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  they  have  ever  been 
disgraced." 

"You'll  see.  The  whole  county  has  heard 
of  the  affair  of  this  twenty  pounds.  Look  at 
that  dear  girl  up  stairs,  who  has  been  such  a 
comfort  to  us.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  fit 
that  she  and  her  husband  should  meet  such  a 
one  as  Grace  Crawley  at  our  table?" 

"I  don't  think  it  would  do  them  n  bit  of 
harm,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "But  there  would 
be  no  chance  of  that,  seeing  that  Griselda's  hus- 
band never  comes  to  us." 

"  He  was  here  the  year  before  last." 

"And  I  never  was  so  tired  of  a  man  in  all 
my  life." 

'■Then  you  prefer  the  Crawleys,  I  suppose. 
This  is  what  you  get  from  Eleanor's  teaching." 
Eleanor  was  the  dean's  wife,  and  Rlrs.  Grantly 's 
younger  sister.  "  It  has  alwaj's  been  a  sorrow 
to  me  that  I  ever  brought  Arabin  into  the  dio- 
cese." 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  bring  him,  archdeacon. 
But  nobody  was  so  glad  asyuu  when  he  proposed 
to  Eleanor." 

"Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  this,  I 
shall  tell  Henry  to-night  that  if  he  makes  a  fool 
of  himself  with  this  girl  he  must  not  look  to  me 
any  longer  for  an  income.  He  has  about  six' 
hundred  a  year  of  his  own,  and  if  he  chooses  to 
throw  himself  away  he  had  better  go  and  live  in 
the  south  of  France,  or  in  Canada,  or  where  he 
pleases.     He  sha'n't  come  here." 

"I  hope  he  won't  marry  the  girl,  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"He  had  better  not!  By  Heavens,  he  had 
better  not!" 

"But  if  he  docs  you'll  be  the  first  to  forgive 
him." 

On  hearing  this  the  archdeacon  slammed  the 
door  and  retired  to  his  ^yashing  ajjparatus.  At 
the  present  moment  he  was  very  angry  with  his 
wife,  but  then  he  was  so  accustomed  to  such 
anger,  and  was  so  well  aware  that  it  in  truth 
meant  nothing,  that  it  did  not  make  him  vm- 
liappy.  The  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grantly  had 
now  been  man  and  wife  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  had  never  in  trutli  quarreled. 
He  had  the  most  profound  res])eot  for  her  judg- 
ment, and  the  most  implicit  reliance  on  her  con- 
duct. She  had  never  yet  offended  him,  or  caused 
him  to  repent  the  hour  in  wliicli  he  had  made 
her  ]\Irs.  Grantly.  But  she  had  come  to  under- 
stand that  she  might  use  a  woman's  privilege 
with  her  tongue  ;  and  slie  nsed  it — not  altogether 
to  his  comfort.  On  the  present  occasion  he  was 
the  more  annoyed  because  he  felt  that  she  might 
be  right.  "It  would  be  a  positive  disgrace,  and 
I  never  would  see  him  again,"  he  said  to  him- 


self. And  yet  as  he  said  it  he  knew  that  he 
would  not  have  the  strength  of  character  to  carry 
him  thi'ough  a  jirolonged  (juarrel  with  his  son. 
"  I  never  would  see  her — never,  never  !"  he  said 
to  himself.  "And  then  such  an  opening  as  he 
might  have  at  his  sister's  house!" 

Major  Grantly  had  been  a  successful  man  in 
life — with  the  one  exception  of  having  lost  the 
mother  of  his  child  within  a  twelve-month  of  his 
marriage,  and  within  a  few  hours  of  that  child's 
birth.  He  had  served  in  India  as  a  very  young 
man,  and  had  been  decorated  with  the  Victoria 
Cross.  Then  he  had  married  a  lady  witli  some 
money,  and  had  left  the  active  service  of  the 
army  with  the  concurring  advice  of  his  own 
family  and  that  of  his  wife.  He  had  taken  a 
small  ])lace  in  his  father's  county;  but  tlie  wife 
for  whose  comfort  he  had  taken  it  had  died  be- 
fore she  was  permitted  to  see  it.  Nevertheless 
he  had  gone  to  reside  there,  hunting  a  good  deal 
and  farming  a  little,  making  himself  jojiular  in 
the  district,  and  keeping  uj)  the  good  name  of 
Grantly  in  a  successful  way,  till — alas! — it  had 
seemed  good  to  him  to  tlirnw  those  favoi-ing  eyes 
on  ])oor  Grace  Crawley.  His  wife  had  now  been 
dead  just  two  years,  and  as  ho  was  still  under 
thirty  no  one  could  deny  it  would  be  right  that 
he  should  marry  again.  No  one  did  deny  it. 
His  father  had  hinted  that  he  ought  to  do  so, 
and  had  generously  whispered  that  if  some  little 
increase  to  the  major's  present  income  were 
needed,  he  might  possibly  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing. "What  is  the  good  of  keeping  it?" 
the  archdeacon  had  said  in  liberal  after-dinner 
warmth ;  "I  only  want  it  for  your  brother  and 
yourself."     The  brother  was  a  clergyman. 

And  the  major's  mother  had  strongly  advised 
him  to  marry  again  ■without  loss  of  time.  ' '  My 
dear  Henry,"  she  had  said,  "you'll  never  be 
younger,  and  youth  does  go  for  something.  As 
for  dear  little  Edith,  being  a  girl,  she  is  almost 
no  impediment.  Do  you  know  tbose  two  girls 
at  Chaldicotcs?" 

"What,  Mrs.  Thome's  nieces?" 

"No;  tiiey  are  not  her  nieces,  but  her  cous- 
ins. Emily  Dunstable  is  very  handsome  :  and 
as  for  money —  1 " 

"But  what  about  birth,  mother?" 

"One  can't  have  c\ery  thing,  my  dear." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  should  like  to 
have  every  thing  or  nothing,"  the  major  had 
said,  laughing.  Now  for  him  to  think  of  Grace 
Crawley  after  that — of  Grace  Crawley,  who  had 
no  money,  and  no  particular  birth,  and  not  even 
beauty  itself — so  at  least  JMrs.  Grantly  said — 
w  ho  had  not  even  enjoyed  the  ordinary  education 
of  a  lady,  was  too  bad.  Nothing  had  been  want- 
ing to  Emily  Dunstable's  education,  and  it  was 
calculated  that  she  would  have  at  least  twenty 
thousand  pounds  on  the  day  of  her  marriage. 

The  disappointment  to  the  mother  would  be 
the  more  sore  because  she  had  gone  to  work 
upon  her  little  scheme  with  reference  to  Miss 
Emily  Dunstable,  and  had  at  first,  as  she  thought, 
seen  her  way  to  success — to  success  in  spite  of 
the  disparaging  Avords  which  her  son  had  spoken 


18 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


to  her.  Mrs.  Thome's  house  at  Clialdicotcs — 
or  Dr.  Thome's  house  as  it  sliould,  jierluips,  be 
more  i^ropcrly  callcil,  for  Dr.  Tliorne  was  the 
liiiiband  of  Mrs.  Tliorne — was  in  these  days  the 
jileasanicst  hi)use  in  IJarsotsliire.  No  one  saw 
so  niucli  {■onij)aiiy  as  the  Thorncs,  or  spent  so 
inui'h  nuuiey  in  so  i)Ieasant  a  way.  Tiie  great 
county  families,  tlie  Tallisers  and  the  De  Cour- 
cys,  the  I..uftons  and  the  Greshains,  were  no 
doubt  grander,  and  sonic  of  them  were  perhaps 
riciier  than  tlie  Clialdicotc  Tiionies — as  they 
■were  called  to  distinj^uish  them  from  the  Thornes 
of  Ullathome  ;  but  none  of  liiese  })Cople  were  so 
]ileasaut  in  their  ways,  so  free  in  their  hosjjital- 
ity,  or  so  easj'  in  their  modes  of  living  as  the 
doctor  and  his  wife.  "When  lirst  Ciialdicotes,  a 
very  old  country  scat,  had  by  the  chances  of  war 
fallen  into  their  hands  and  been  newly  furnish- 
ed, and  newly  decorated,  and  newly  gardened, 
and  new  lygrcen-houscd  and  hot-watered  by  them, 
many  of  the  county  jicojilc  bad  turned  up  their 
noses  at  tliem.  Dear  old  Lady  Lufton  had  done 
so,  and  had  b:en  greatly  grieved — saying  no- 
thing, however,  of  her  grief,  when  her  son  and 
dauglitcr-in-law  had  broken  a\\ay  from  her,  and 
submitted  themselves  to  the  blandishments  of 
the  doctor's  wife.  And  the  Grantlys  liad  stood 
aloof,  partly  influenced,  no  doubt,  by  their  dear 
and  intimate  old  friend  JMiss  IMonica  Thorne  of 
Ullat borne,  a  lady  of  the  very  old  school,  who, 
though  good  as  gold  and  kind  as  charity,  could 
not  endure  that  an  interloping  Mrs.  Thorne,  who 
never  had  a  grandfather,  should  come  to  honor 
and  glory  in  the  county  simply  because  of  her 
riches.  Miss  Monica  Thorne  stood  out,  but 
Jlrs.  Grantly  gave  wiiy,  and  having  once  given 
way  found  tliat  Dr.  Thorne,  and  Mrs.  Thorne, 
and  Emily  Dunstable,  and  Chaldicote  House 
together,  were  very  charming.  And  the  major 
had  been  once  there  with  her,  and  had  made 
himself  very  pleasant,  and  there  had  certainly 
been  some  little  passage  of  incipient  love  between 
liim  and  Miss  Dunstable,  as  to  which  Mrs. 
Thorne,  who  managed  every  thing,  seemed  to 
be  well  pleased.  This  had  been  after  the  first 
mention  made  by  ]Mrs.  Grantly  to  her  son  of 
Emily  Dunstable's  name,  but  before  she  had 
lieard  any  faintest  wiiispers  of  his  fancy  for  Grace 
Crawley;  and  she  had  therefore  been  justified 
in  hoping — almost  in  expecting — that  Emily 
Dunstable  would  be  her  danghter-in-law,  and 
was  tlierelbre  the  more  aggrieved  when  this  ter- 
rible Crawley  peril  fust  opened  itself  before  her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE   archdeacon's   TIIBEAT, 

The  dinner-party  at  the  rectory  comprised 
none  but  the  Grantly  family.  The  marchioness 
had  written  to  say  that  she  preferred  to  have  it 
60.  The  father  had  suggested  that  the  Thornes 
of  Ullathorne,  very  old  friends,  might  be  asked, 
and  the  Greshams  fiom  Boxall  Hill,  and  had  even 
promised  to  endeavor  to  get  old  Lady  Lufton  over 


to  the  rectory.  Lady  Lufton  having  in  former 
years  been  Griselda's  warm  friend.  But  Lady 
Hartletop  had  jircferred  to  see  her  dear  father 
and  mother  in  jjrivacy.  Her  brother  Henry  she 
would  be  glad  to  meet,  and  hoped  to  make  some 
arrangement  with  him  for  a  short  visit  to  Har- 
tlebury,  her  husband's  jilace  in  Shropshire — as 
to  whicli  latter  hint,  it  may,  however,  be  at  once 
said,  tiiat  nothing  further  was  spoken  after  the 
Crawley  alliance  had  been  suggested.  And 
there  had  been  a  very  sore  point  mooted  by  the 
daughter  in  a  request  made  by  her  to  her  father 
that  she  might  not  be  called  ujion  to  meet  her 
randfather,  her  mother's  father,  Mr.  Harding, 
clergyman  of  Barcliestcr,  who  was  now  stricken 
in  years.  "I'apa  would  not  have  come,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly;  "but  I  think — I  do  think — " 
Then  she  stojijied  herself. 

"Your  father  has  odd  ways  sometimes,  my 
dear.  You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  lia\  ing  liim 
here  myself." 

"It  docs  not  signify,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 
"  Do  not  let  us  say  any  thing  more  about  it. 
Of  course  we  can  not  have  every  thing.  I  am 
told  the  child  docs  her  duty  in  her  sphere  of  life, 
and  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  contented."  Then 
Mrs.  Grantly  went  up  to  her  own  room,  and 
there  she  cried.  Nothing  was  said  to  the  major 
on  the  unpleasant  subject  of  the  Crawleys  before 
dinner.  He  met  his  sister  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  was  allowed  to  kiss  her  noble  cheek.  "  I 
hope  Edith  is  well,  Henry,"  said  the  sister. 
"  Quite  well ;  and  little  Dumbello  is  the  same, 
I  hope?"  "  Thank  you,  j-es;  quite  well."  Then 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to  be  said  be- 
tween the  two.  The  major  never  made  inquiries 
after  the  august  family,  or  would  allow  it  to  ap- 
pear that  he  was  conscious  of  being  shone  upon 
by  the  wife  of  a  marquis.  Any  adulation  w  hich 
Griselda  received  of  that  kind  came  from  her 
father,  and,  therefore,  unconsciously  she  had 
learned  to  think  that  her  father  was  better  bred 
than  the  otlier  members  of  her  family,  and  more 
fitted  by  nature  to  move  in  that  sacred  circle  to 
which  siie  herself  had  been  exalted.  We  need 
not  dwell  upon  the  dinner,  which  was  but  a  dull 
affair.  Mrs.  Grantly  strove  to  carry  on  the 
family  party  exactly  as  it  would  have  been  car- 
ried on  had  her  daughter  married  the  son  of 
some  neighboring  squire;  but  she  herself  was 
conscious  of  the  struggle,  and  the  fact  of  there 
being  a  struggle  produced  failure.  The  rector's 
servants  treated  the  daughter  of  the  house  with 
special  awe,  and  the  marchioness  herself  moved, 
and  spoke,  and  ate,  and  drank  with  a  cold  mag- 
nificence, which  I  think  had  become  a  second 
nature  with  licr,  but  which  was  not  on  that  ac- 
count the  less  ojipressive.  Even  the  archdeacon, 
who  enjoyed  something  in  that  which  was  so 
disagreeable  to  his  wife,  felt  a  relief  when  lie 
was  left  alone  after  dinner  with  his  son.  He 
felt  relieved  as  his  son  got  up  to  open  the  door 
for  his  mother  and  sister,  but  was  aware  at  tlie 
same  time  that  he  had  before  him  a  most  diffi- 
cult and  possil)]y  a  most  disastrous  task.  His 
dcjir  sou  Henry  was  not  a  man  to  bo  talked 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


19 


smootlily  out  of,  or  into,  any  propriety.  He 
had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  having  hitherto  been 
a  successful  man,  who  in  youth  had  fallen  into 
few  youthful  troubles — who  had  never  justified 
his  father  in  using  stern  parental  authority — was 
not  now  inclined  to  bend  his  neck.  "  Henry," 
said  the  archdeacon,  "what  are  yon  drinking? 
That's  Si  port,  but  it's  not  just  what  it  should 
be.     SImll  I  send  for  another  bottle?" 

"  It  will  do  for  me,  Sir.     I  shall  only  take 
a  glass." 

I  "I  shall  drink  two  or  three  glasses  of  claret. 
But  you  young  fellows  have  become  so  despe- 
rately temi)erate." 

"  We  take  our  v,'ine  at  dinner.  Sir." 
"By-the-by,  how  well  Griselda  is  looking." 
"Yes,  she  is.  It's  always  easy  fur  women 
■to  look  well  when  they're  rich."  How  would 
iGrace  Crawley  look,  then,  who  was  poor  as  pov- 
erty itself,  and  who  should  remain  poor  if  his 
ison  was  fool  enough  to  marry  her  ?  That  was 
!the  train  of  thought  which  ran  through  the  arch- 
fdeacon's  mind.  "I  do  not  think  much  of  rich- 
fcs,"  said  he  ;  "but  it  is  always  well  that  a  gen 


glestock.     I  knew  that  there  could  be  nothing 
in  it." 

"But  there  is  something  in  it,  Sir." 
"What  is  there  in  it?     Do  not  keep  me  in 
suspense,  Henry.     What  is  it  you  mean  ?" 

"It  is  rather  hard  to  be  cross-questioned  in 
this  way  on  such  a  subject.  AVhcn  you  express 
yourself  as  thankful  that  there  is  notliing  in  the 
rumor  I  am  forced  to  stop  you,  as  otiierwise  it 
is  possible  that  hereafter  you  may  say  that  I 
have  deceived  you." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  marry  her?" 
"I  certainly  do  not  mean  to  pledge  myself 
not  to  do  so." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Henry,  that  you 
are  in  love  with  Miss  Crawley  ?"  Then  there 
was  another  pause,  during  which  the  archdeacon 
sat  looking  for  an  answer;  but  the  major  said 
never  a  word.  "  Am  I  to  suppose  that  you  in- 
tend to  lower  yourself  by  marrying  a  young  wo- 
man who  can  not  possibly  have  enjoyed  any  of 
the  advantages  of  a  lady's  education  ?  1  say 
nothing  of  the  imprudence  of  the  thing ;  notliing 
of  her  own  want  of  fortune ;   nothing  of  your 


jtleman'swife  or  a  gentleman's  daughter  should  having  to  maintain  a  whole  family  steeped  in 
have  a  sufficiency  to  maintain  her  position  in  |  poverty ;  nothing  of  the  debts  and  character  of 
life."  1  the  fixther,  upon  whom,  as  I  understand,  at  this 

"You  may  say  the  same,  Sir,  of  every  body's    moment  tliere  rests  a  very  grave  suspicion  of — 


wife  and  every  body's  daughter." 
"You  know  what  I  mean,  Henry." 
"I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  do,  Sir." 
"Perhaps  I  had  better  speak  out  at  once. 
A  rumor  has  reached  your  mother  and  me, 
which  we  don't  believe  for  a  moment,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  makes  us  unhappy  even  as  a  re- 
port. They  say  that  there  is  a  young  woman 
living  in  Silverbridge  to  whom  you  are  becom- 
ing attached." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not  be- 
come attached  to  a  young  woman  in  Silver- 
bridge? — though  I  hope  any  young  woman  to 
whom  I  may  become  attached  will  be  worthy 
at  any  rate  of  being  called  a  young  lady." 

"I  hope  so,  Henrv ;  I  hope  so.  I  do  hope 
150." 

"So  much  I  will  promise,  Sir;  but  I  will 
promise  nothing  more." 

The  archdeacon  looked  across  into  his  son's 
face,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him.  His  son's 
voice  and  his  son's  eyes  seemed  to  tell  him  two 
things.  They  seemed  to  tell  him,  firstly,  that 
the  rumor  about  Grace  Crawley  was  true  ;  and, 
secondly,  that  the  major  was  resolved  not  to  be 
talked  out  of  his  folly.  "  But  you  are  not  en- 
gaged to  any  one,  are  you  ?"  said  the  archdea- 


of — of — what  I'm  afraid  I  must  call  downright 
theft." 

"  Downright  theft,  certainly,  if  he  were 
guilty." 

"I  say  nothing  of  all  that;  but  looking  at 
the  young  woman  herself — " 

"  She  is  simply  the  best  educated  girl  whom 
it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  meet." 

"  Henry,  I  have  a  right  to  expect  that  you 
will  be  honest  with  me." 

"I  am  honest  witli  you." 

"Do  you  mean  to  ask  this  girl  to  marry 
you?" 

"I  do  not  think  that  you  have  any  right  to 
ask  me  that  question,  Sir." 

"I  have  a  right  at  any  rate  to  tell  you  this, 
that  if  you  so  far  dit^grace  yourself  and  me,  I 
shall  consider  myself  bound  to  withdraw  from 
you  all  the  sanction  which  would  be  conveyed 
by  my — my — my  continued  assistance." 

"  Do  you  intend  me  to  understand  that  you 
will  stop  my  income?" 

"  Certainly  I  should." 

"Then,  Sir,  I  think  you  would  behave  to  me 
most  cruelly.  You  advised  me  to  give  up  my 
profession." 

'Not  in  order  that  you  might  marry  Grace 


con.     The  son  did  not  at  first  make  any  answer,  i  Crawley." 
and  then  the  father  repeated  the  question.    "Con- 1       "I  claim  the  privilege  of  a  man  of  my  age  to 
sidering  our  mutual  positions,  Henry,  I  think    do  as  I  please  in  such  a  matter  as  marriage, 
you  ought  to  tell  me  if  you  are  engaged." 


I  am  not  engaged.  Had  I  become  so  I 
should  liave  taken  the  first  opportunity  of  tell- 
ing either  you  or  my  mother." 

"  Thank  God  1  Now,  my  dear  boy,  I  can 
speak  out  more  ])lainly.  The  young  woman 
whose  name  I  have  heard  is  daughter  to  that 
Mr.  Crawley  who  is  perpetual  curate  at  IIo^ 


Miss  Crawley  is  a  lady.  Her  father  is  a  clergy- 
man, as  is  mine.  Her  fatiier's  oldest  friend  is 
my  uncle.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  against 
her  except  her  poverty.  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
hoard  of  such  cruelty  on  a  father's  part." 

"Very  well,  Henry." 

"I  have  endeavored  to  do  my  duty  by  you, 
Sir,  always  ;  and  by  my  mother.     You  can  treat 


20 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


and  of  your  cliild,  and  of  us,  before  von  take  any 
great  step  in  life." 

"I  will,  mother,"  said  lie.  Then  he  went 
out  and  jnit  on  his  wrapper,  and  pot  into  his 
do};-cart,  and  drove  liimsclf  oil"  to  iSilverbridge. 
He  had  not  spoken  to  his  father  since  tliey  were 
in  tiic  dining-room  on  the  jirevious  cvenint;. 
When  he  started  the  marchioness  had  not  yet 
come  down  stairs ;  but  at  eleven  she  breakfast- 
ed, and  at  twelve  she  also  was  taken  away. 
Toor  ]Mrs.  Grantly  had  not  had  much  comfort 
fiotu  her  children's  visits. 


me  in  this  way,  if  you  please,  but  it  will  not  |      "Dear  Henry,"  said  the  motlier  to  her  son 
have  any  ctVcct  on  my  conduct.     You  can  stop  ,  the  next  morning;  "think  much  of  yourself, 
my  allowance  tc.-morrow,  if  you  like  it.     I  had 
not  as  yet  made  u])  my  mind  to  nuike  an  olVer 
to  Miss  Crawley,  but  1  shall  now  do  so  to-mor- 
row morning." 

Tiiis  was  very  bad  indeed,  and  the  archdea- 
con was  extremely  Hidiai)i)y.  He  was  by  no 
means  at  heart  a  cruel  man.  He  loved  his 
children  dearly.  If  this  disagreeable  marriage 
were  to  take  ])lace  he  would  doubtless  do  ex- 
actly as  his  wife  had  predicted.  He  would  not 
stop  his  sou's  income  for  a  single  cpiarter;  and, 
though  he  went  on  telling  himself  that  he  would 
stoj)  it,  he  knew  in  his  own  heart  tluit  any  such 
severity  was  beyond  his  power.  He  was  a  gen- 
erous man  in  money-matters — having  a  dislike 
for  poverty  which  was  not  generous — and  for 
his  own  sake  could  not  have  endured  to  sec  a 
son  of  his  in  want.  IJut  he  was  terribly  anx- 
ious to  exercise  the  jiowcr  which  the  use  of  the 
threat  mi;;lit  give  him.  "  Henry,"  he  said, 
"you  arc  treating  me  badly,  very  badly.  My 
anxiety  has  always  been  for  the  welfare  of  my 
children.  Do  you  tliink  that  Miss  Crawley 
would  be  a  fitting  sister-in-law  for  that  dear  girl 
up  stairs?" 

"Certainly  I  do,  or  for  any  other  dear  girl 
in  the  world  ;  excepting  that  Griselda,  who  is 
not  clever,  would  hardly  be  able  to  appreciate 
Miss  Crawley,  who  is  clever." 

"Griselda  not  clever!  Good  Heavens!" 
Then  there  was  another  pause,  and  as  tlie  ma- 
jor said  nothing,  the  father  continued  his  en- 
treaties. "Pray,  pray  think  of  what  my  wishes 
are,  and  your  mother's.  You  are  not  commit- 
ted as  yet.  Pray  think  of  us  while  there  is 
time.  I  would  rather  double  your  income  if  I 
saw  j'ou  marry  any  one  that  we  could  name 
here." 

"I  have  enough  as  it  is,  if  I  may  only  be  al- 
lowed to  know  that  it  will  not  be  caja-iciously 
withdrawn."  The  archdeacon  filled  his  glass 
tinconsciously,  and  si])ped  his  wine,  while  he 
thought  wliat  further  he  might  say.  Perhaps 
it  might  be  better  that  he  should  say  nothing 
further  at  the  present  moment.  The  major, 
however,  was  indiscreet,  and  pushed  the  ques- 
tion. "  May  I  understand,  Sir,  that  your  threat 
is  witlidrawn,  and  that  my  income  is  secure  ?" 

."  What,  if  you  marry  this  girl  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir;  will  my  income  be  continued  to 
me  if  I  marry  Miss  Crawley?" 

"No,  it  will  not."  Then  the  father  got  up 
hastily,  pushed  the  decanter  back  angrily  from 
his  hand,  and  without  saying  another  word  walk- 
ed away  into  the  drawing-room.  That  evening 
at  the  rectory  was  very  gloomy.  The  archdea- 
con now  and  again  said  a  word  or  two  to  his 
daughter,  and  his  daughter  answered  him  in 
monosyllables.  The  major  sat  apart  moodily, 
and  spoke  to  no  one.  Mrs.  Grantly,  under- 
standing well  what  had  passed,  knew  that  no- 
thing could  be  done  at  the  present  moment  to 
restore  family  comfort ;  so  she  sat  by  the  fire  and 
knitted.     Exactly  at  ten  they  all  went  to  bed. 


i>s^ 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   CLKEGY-MAN'S    house   at   nOGGLESTOCIC. 

I\Ius.  Cr.AWLEY  had  walked  fi-om  Iloggle- 
stock  to  Silvcrbridge  on  the  occasion  of  her  visit 
to  Mr.  Walker,  the  attorney,  and  had  been 
kindly  sent  back  by  that  gentleman  in  his  wife's 
little  open  carriage.  The  tidings  she  brought 
home  with  her  to  her  husband  were  very  griev- 
ous. The  magistrates  would  sit  on  the  next 
Thursday — it  was  then  Friday — and  Mr.  Craw- 
ley had  better  appear  before  them  to  answer  the 
charge  made  by  Mr.  Soames.  He  would  be 
served  with  a  summons,  which  he  could  obey  of 
his  own  accord.  There  had  been  many  points 
very  closely  discussed  between  Walker  and  Mrs. 
Crawley,  as  to  which  there  had  been  great  diffi- 
culty in  the  choice  of  words  which  should  bo 
tender  enough  in  regard  to  the  feelings  of  the 
poor  lady,  and  yet  strong  enough  to  convey  to 
her  the  very  facts  as  they  stood.  Would  Mr. 
Crawley  come,  or  must  a  policeman  be  sent  to 
fetch  him  ?  The  magistrates  had  already  is- 
sued a  warrant  for  his  apprehension.  Such  in 
truth  was  the  fact,  but  they  had  agreed  with 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


21 


Mr.  Walker  that  as  there  was  no  reasonable 
ground  for  anticipating  any  attempt  at  escape 
on  the  part  of  the  reverend  gentleman,  the  law- 
yer might  use  what  gentle  means  he  could  for 
insuring  the  clergyman's  attendance.  Could 
Mrs.  Crawley  undertake  to  say  that  he  would 
appear?  INIrs.  Crawley  did  undertake  either 
that  her  husband  should  appear  on  tiic  Thurs- 
day, or  else  that  she  would  send  over  in  the  ear- 
ly part  of  the  week  and  declare  her  inability  to 
insure  his  aio^iearancc.  In*that  case  it  was  un- 
derstood the  policeman  must  come.  Tlien  Mr. 
Walker  had  suggested  that  JMr.  Crawley  had 
better  employ  a  lawyer.  Ujwn  this  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley had  looked  beseechingly  up  into  J\lr.  Walk- 
er's face,  and  had  asked  him  to  undertake  the 
duty.  He  was  of  course  obliged  to  explain  that 
lie  was  already  employed  on  tlic  otlier  side. 
Mr.  Soames  had  secured  his  S3rvices,  and 
thougli  lie  was  willing  to  do  all  in  his  ]wwer  to 
mitigate  tlie  sufferings  of  tlie  family,  he  could 
not  abandon  the  duty  he  had  undertaken.  lie 
named  anotlicr  attorney,  however,  and  then 
sent  the  jwor  woman  home  in  his  wife's  car- 
riage. "  I  fear  that  unfortunate  man  is  guilty. 
I  fear  he  is,"  Mr.  Walker  had  said  to  his  Avifc 
within  ten  minutes  of  the  departure  of  the  visitor. 

Mrs.  Crawley  would  not  allow  herself  to  be 
driven  up  to  the  garden  gate  before  her  own 
house,  but  had  left  the  carriage  some  three  hun- 
dred yards  off  down  the  road,  and  from  thence 
she  walked  home.  It  was  now  quite  dark.  It 
was  nearly  six  in  the  evening  on  a  wet  Decem- 
ber night,  and  although  cloaks  and  shawls  had 
been  supplied  to  her,  she  was  wet  and  cold  when 
she  reached  her  home.  But  at  such  a  moment, 
anxious  as  she  was  to  prevent  tlie  additional 
evil  which  would  come  to  them  all  from  illness 
to  herself,  she  could  not  pass  through  to  her 
room  till  she  had  spoken  to  her  husband.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  one  sitting-room  on  the  left 
side  of  the  jiassage  as  the  house  was  entered, 
and  witli  him  was  their  daughter  Jane,  a  girl 
now  nearly  sixteen  years  of  age.  There  was 
no  light  in  the  room,  and  hardly  more  than  a 
spark  of  fire  showed  itself  in  the  grate.  The 
father  was  sitting  on  one  side  of  the  iiearth  in  an 
old  arm-cluur,  and  there  he  had  sat  for  the  last 
hour  without  speaking.  His  daughter  had  been 
in  and  out  of  the  room,  and  had  endeavored  to 
gain  his  attention  now  and  again  by  a  word, 
but  he  had  never  answered  her,  and  had  not 
even  noticed  her  presence.  At  the  moment 
when  Mrs.  Crawley's  step  was  heard  upon  the 
gravel  which  led  to  the  door  Jane  was  kneeling 
before  the  fire,  with  a  hand  upon  her  father's 
arm.  She  had  tried  to  get  her  hand  into  his, 
but  he  had  either  been  unaware  of  the  attempt, 
or  had  rejected  it. 

"Here  is  mamma,  at  last,"  said  Jane,  rising 
to  her  feet  as  her  mother  entered  the  house. 

"Are  you  all  in  the  dark?"  said  Mrs.  Craw- 
Icy,  striving  to  speak  in  a  voice  that  should  not 
be  sorrowful. 

"Yes,  mamma;  we  are  in  the  dark.  Papa 
is  here.     Oh,  mamma,  how  wet  you  are!" 


"Yes,  dear.  It  is  raining.  Get  a  light  out 
of  the  kitchen,  Jane,  and  I  will  go  u])  stairs  in 
two  minutes."  Then,  when  Jane  was  gone, 
the  wife  made  her  way  in  the  dark  over  to  her 
husband's  side,  and  sjioke  a  word  to  him. 
"  Josiah,"  she  said,  "will  you  not  speak  to  me?" 

"What  sliould  I  speak  about  ?  Where  have 
you  been?" 

"  I  have  been  to  Silverbridge.  I  have  been 
to  Mr.  Walker.     He,  at  any  rate,  is  very  kind." 

"  I  don't  want  his  kindness.  I  want  no  man's 
kindness.  Mr.  Walker  is.  the  attorney,  I  be- 
lieve.    Kind,  indeed!" 

"I  mean  considerate.  Josiah,  let  us  do  the 
best  we  can  in  this  trouble.  We  have  had  oth- 
ers as  heavy  before." 

"But  none  to  crush  me  as  this  will  crush  me. 
Well ;  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Am  I  to  go  to  prison 
— to-night  ?"  At  this  moment  his  daughter 
returned  with  a  candle,  and  the  mother  could 
not  make  her  answer  at  once.  It  was  a  wretch- 
ed, poverty-stricken  room.  By  degrees  the  car- 
pet had  disappeared,  which  had  been  laid  down 
some  nine  or  ten  j-ears  since,  when  they  had 
first  come  to  Ilogglestock,  and  which  even  then 
had  not  been  new.  Now  nothing  but  a  poor 
fragment  of  it  remained  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. In  the  middle  of  the  room  there  was  a 
table  which  had  once  been  large ;  but  one  flap 
of  it  was  gone  altogether,  and  the  other  flap 
sloped  grievously  toward  the  floor,  the  Aveakness 
of  old  age  having  fallen  into  its  legs.  There 
were  two  or  three  smaller  tables  about,  but  they 
stood  pro]>ped  against  walls,  thence  obtaining 
a  security  which  their  own  strength  would  not 
give  them.  At  the  further  end  of  the  room 
there  was  an  ancient  i>iece  of  furniture,  which 
was  always  called  "papa's  secretary,"  at  which 
Mr.  Crawley  customarily  sat  and  wrote  his  ser- 
mons, and  did  all  work  that  was  done  by  him 
within  his  house.  The  man  who  had  made  it, 
some  time  in  the  last  century,  had  intended  it 
to  be  a  locked  guardian  for  domestic  documents, 
and  the  receptacle  for  all  that  was  most  private 
in  the  house  of  some  paterfamilias.  But  be- 
neath the  hands  of  Mr.  Crawley  it  always  stood 
open  ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  small  space 
at  which  he  wrote,  was  covered  with  dog's-eared 
books,  from  nearly  all  of  which  the  covers  had 
disappeared.  There  were  tliere  two  odd  vol- 
umes of  Euripides,  a  Greek  Testament,  an  Odys- 
sey, a  duodecimo  Pindar,  and  a  miniature 
Anacreon.  There  was  half  a  Hoiace — the  two 
first  books  of  the  Odes  at  the  beginning  and 
the  De  Arte  Poetica  at  the  end  having  disap- 
peared. There  was  a  little  bit  of  a  volume  of 
Cicero,  and  there  were  C;\isar"s  Commentaries, 
in  two  volumes,  so  stoutly  bound  that  they  had 
defied  the  combined  ill-usage  of  time  and  the 
Crawley  fixmily.  All  these  were  piled  upon  the 
secretary,  with  many  others — odd  volumes  of 
sermons  and  the  like  ;  but  the  Greek  and  Latin 
lay  at  the  top,  and  showed  signs  of  most  frequent 
use.  There  was  one  arm-chair  in  the  room — a 
Windsor-chair,  as  such  used  to  bo  called,  made 
soft,  bv  an  old  cushion  in  the  back,  in  which  Mr. 


22 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Crawley  sat  when  both  lie  and  his  wife  were  in 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  (.Crawley  when  lie  was  ab- 
sent. And  tliere  was  an  old  horse-hair  sofa — 
now  almost  denuded  of  its  horse-hair — but  that, 
like  the  tables,  required  the  assistanec  of  a 
fricniily  wall.  Tiien  there  was  half  a  dozen  of 
other  cliairs — all  of  dillercnt  sorts — and  they 
completed  the  furniture  of  the  room.  It  was 
not  such  a  room  as  one  would  wish  to  see  in- 
liabited  by  a  beneficed  clergyman  of  the  Church 
of  En;;land ;  but  tliey  who  know  what  money 
will  do  and  what  it  will  not,  will  nnderstand 
how  easily  n  man  with  a  family,  and  with  a 
hundred  and  thirty  jtonnds  a  year,  may  be 
brought  to  the  need  of  inhabiting  such  a  cham- 
ber. When  it  is  rcmend)ered  that  three  i>ounds 
of  meat  a  day,  at  ninei)ence  a  jtound,  will  cost 
over  forty  jiounds  a  year,  there  need  be  no  dif- 
ficulty in  understanding  that  it  may  be  so. 
Bread  for  such  a  family  must  cost  at  least  twen- 
ty-five pounds.  Clothes  for  five  jiersons,  of 
whom  one  must  at  any  rate  wear  the  raiment 
of  a  gentleman,  can  hardly  be  found  for  less 
than  ten  ))ounds  a  year  a  head.  Then  there 
remains  fifteen  pounds  for  tea,  sugar,  beer, 
wages,  education,  amusements,  and  the  like. 
In  such  circumstances  a  gentleman  can  hardly 
pay  much  for  the  renewal  of  his  furniture ! 

Jlrs.  Crawley  could  not  answer  her  husband's 
question  before  her  daughter,  and  was  therefore 
obliged  to  make  another  excuse  for  again  .send- 
ing her  out  of  the  room.  "Jane,  dear,"  she 
said,  "bring  my  things  down  to  the  kitchen,  and 
I  will  change  tliem  by  the  fire.  I  will  be  there 
in  two  minutes,  when  I  have  had  a  word  with 
your  ]iii]ia."  The  girl  went  immediately,  and 
then  ^Irs.  Crawley  answered  her  husband's  ques- 
tion. '"No,  my  dear;  there  is  no  question  of 
your  going  to  pi'ison." 

"But  there  will  be." 

"  I  have  undertaken  that  you  shall  attend  be- 
fore tlie  magistrates  at  Silverbridge  on  Thursday 
next,  at  twelve  o'clock.     You  will  do  that?" 

"Do  it!  You  mean,  I  suppose,  to  say  that 
I  must  go  there.  Is  anv  body  to  come  and  fetch 
me?" 

"Nobody  will  conic.  Only  you  must  prom- 
ise that  you  will  be  there.  I  have  promised  for 
you.  You  will  go  ;  'will  you  not?"  She  stood 
leaning  over  him,  half  embracing  him,  waiting 
for  an  answer ;  but  for  a  while  he  gave  none. 
"You  will  tell  me  that  you  will  do  what  I  have 
undertaken  for  you,  Josiah?" 

"I  tliink  I  would  rather  that  they  fetclicd  me. 
I  think  that  I  will  not  go  myself." 

"And  have  policemen  come  for  you  into  the 
parisli  I  INIr.  "Walker  has  promised  that  he  will 
send  over  his  jihaeton.  lie  sent  me  home  in  it 
to-day." 

"I  want  nobody's  phaeton.  If  I  go  I  will 
walk.  If  it  were  ten  times  the  distance,  and 
thougli  I  had  not  a  shoe  left  to  my  feet,  I  would 
walk.  If  I  go  there  at  all,  of  my  own  accord, 
I  will  walk  there." 

"But  you  will  go?" 

"What  do  I  care  for   the   parish?     What 


matters  it  who  sees  me  now?  I  can  not  be 
degraded  worse  than  I  am.  Every  body  knows 
it." 

"There  is  no  disgrace  without  guilt,"  said 
his  wife. 

"Every  body  thinks  me  guilty.  I  see  it  in 
their  eyes.  Tiie  children  know  of  it,  and  I 
hear  their  whispers  in  the  school,  '  Mr.  Craw- 
ley has  taken  some  money.'  I  heard  the  girl 
say  it  myself." 

"What  matters  wliat  the  girl  says?" 

"And  yet  you  would  have  me  go  in  a  fine 
carriage  to  Silverbridge,  as  though  to  a  wedding. 
If  I  am  wanted  there  let  them  take  mc  as  they 
woidd  another.  I  shall  be  here  for  them — un- 
less I  am  dead." 

At  this  moment  Jane  reappeared,  ])ressingher 
mother  to  take  ofY  her  wet  clothes,  and  Mrs. 
Crawley  went  with  her  daughter  to  the  kitchen. 
The  one  red-armed  young  girl  who  was  their 
only  servant  was  sent  away,  and  then  the  mo- 
ther and  child  discussed  how  best  they  might 
])revail  with  the  head  of  the  family.  "But, 
mamma,  it  must  come  right,  must  it  not?" 

"  I  trust  it  will.  I  think  it  will.  But  I  can 
not  see  my  way  as  yet." 

"Papa can  not  have  done  any  thing  wrong." 

"No,  my  dear;  he  has  done  nothing  wrong. 
He  has  made  great  mistakes,  and  it  is  hard  to 
make  people  understand  that  he  has  not  inten- 
tionally spoken  untruths.  He  is  ever  thinking 
of  other  things,  about  the  school,  and  his  ser- 
mons, and  he  does  not  remember." 

"And  about  how  poor  we  are,  mamma." 

"He  has  much  to  occupy  his  mind,  and  he 
forgets  things  which  dwell  in  the  memory  with 
other  people.  He  said  that  he  had  got  this 
money  from  Jlr.  Soames,  and  of  course  he 
thought  that  it  was  so." 

"And  where  did  he  get  it,  mamma?" 

"Ah — I  wish  I  knew.  I  should  have  said 
that  I  had  seen  every  shilling  that  came  into  the 
house ;  but  I  know  nothing  of  this  check — 
whence  it  came." 

"  But  will  not  papa  tell  you  ?" 

"  He  would  tell  me  if  he  knew.  He  thinks 
it  came  from  the  dean." 

"And  are  you  sure  it  did  not ?" 

"Yes;  quite  sure  ;  as  sure  as  I  can  be  of  any 
thing.  The  dean  told  me  he  would  give  hiin 
fifty  pounds,  and  the  fifty  pounds  came.  I  had 
them  in  my  own  hands.  And  he  has  written 
to  say  that  it  was  so." 

"  But  couldn't  this  be  part  of  the  fifty  pounds?" 

"No,  dear,  no." 

"  Then  where  did  papa  get  it?  Perhaps  he 
picked  it  up,  and  has  forgotten  ?" 

To  this  Mrs.  Crawley  made  no  replj'.  The 
idea  that  the  check  had  been  found  by  her  hus- 
band— had  been  picked  up,  as  Jane  had  said — 
had  occurred  also  to  Jane's  mother.  Mr. 
Soames  was  confident  that  he  had  dropped  the 
pocket-book  at  the  parsonage.  Mrs.  Crawley 
had  always  disliked  Mr.  Soames,  thinking  him 
to  be  hard,  cruel,  and  vulgar.  She  would  not 
have  hesitated  to  believe  him  guilty  of  a  false- 


THE  LAST  CIIEONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


23 


hood,  or  even  of  direct  dishonesty,  if  by  so  believ- 
ing she  could  in  her  own  mind  have  found  the 
means  of  reconciling  her  husband's  possession 
of  the  check  with  absolute  truth  on  his  part. 
But  she  could  not  do  so.  Even  though  Soames 
had,  with  devilish  premeditated  malice,  slipped 
the  check  into  her  husband's  ])ockct,  his  having 
done  so  would  not  account  for  her  husband'* 
Iiaving  used  the  check  when  he  found  it  there. 
She  was  driven  to  make  excuses  for  him  which, 
valid  as  they  might  be  witli  herself,  could  not 
be  valid  with  others.  lie  had  said  that  Mr. 
Soames  had  paid  the  check  to  him.  That  was 
clearly  a  mistake.  He  had  said  tliat  the  check 
had  been  given  to  him  by  the  dean.  That  was 
clearly  another  mistake.  She  knew,  or  thought 
she  knew,  that  he,  being  such  as  he  was,  might 
make  such  blunders  as  these,  and  yet  be  true. 
She  believed  that  such  statements  might  be 
blunders  and  not  falsehoods — so  convinced  was 
she  that  her  husband's  mind  would  not  act  at 
all  times  as  do  the  minds  of  other  men.  But 
having  such  a  conviction,  she  was  driven  to  be- 
lieve also  that  almost  any  thing  might  be  possi- 
ble. Soames  may  have  been  right,  or  he  might 
have  dropped,  not  the  book,  but  the  check.  She 
had  no  difficulty  in  presuming  Soames  to  be 
wrong  in  any  detail,  if  by  so  supposing  she  could 
make  the  exculpation  of  her  husband  easier  to 
herself.  If  villainy  on  the  part  of  Soames  was 
needful  to  her  theory,  Soames  would  become  to 
her  a  villain  at  once — of  the  blackest  dye.  Might 
it  not  be  possible  that  the  check  having  thus  fall- 
en into  her  husband's  hands,  he  had  come,  after 
a,  while,  to  think  that  it  had  been  sent  to  him 
by  his  friend,  the  dean  ?  And  if  it  were  so, 
would  it  be  possible  to  make  others  so  believe? 
That  there  was  some  mistake  which  would  be 
easily  explained  were  her  husband's  mind  lucid 
tit  all  points,  but  whicli  she  could  not  explain 
because  of  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  she  was 
thoroughly  convinced.  But  were  she  herself  to 
put  forward  such  a  defense  on  her  husband's 
part,  she  would  in  doing  so  be  driven  to  say  that 
he  was  a  lunatic ;  that  he  was  incapable  of  mana- 
ging the  affairs  of  himself  or  his  family.  It  seem- 
ed to  her  that  slie  would  be  compelled  to  have 
him  proved  to  be  either  a  thief  or  a  madman. 
And  yet  she  knew  that  he  was  neither.  That 
he  was  not  a  thief  was  as  clear  to  her  as  the  sun 
at  noonday.  Could  she  have  lain  on  the  man's 
bosom  for  twenty  years,  and  not  yet  have  learned 
the  secrets  of  the  heart  beneath  ?  Tiie  whole 
mind  of  the  man  was,  as  she  told  herself,  within 
her  grasp.  He  might  have  taken  the  twenty 
pounds ;  he  might  have  taken  it  and  spent  it, 
though  it  was  not  his  own ;  but  yet  he  was  no 
thief.  Nor  was  he  a  madman.  No  man  more 
sane  in  preaching  the  gospel  of  his  Lord,  in  mak- 
ing intelligible  to  the  ignorant  the  promises  of 
his  Saviour,  ever  got  into  a  parish  pulpit  or 
tauglit  in  a  jiarish  school.  The  intellect  of  the 
man  was  as  clear  as  running  water  in  all  things 
not  appertaining  to  his  daily  life  and  its  difti- 
culties.  He  could'  be  logical  with  a  vengeance 
— 90  logical  as  to  cause  infinite  trouble  to  his 


wife,  who,  with  all  her  good  sense,  was  not  log- 
ical. And  he  had  Greek  at  his  fingers'  ends — 
as  his  daughter  knew  very  well.  And  even  to 
this  day  he  would  sometimes  I'ccite  to  them  En- 
glish poetry,  lines  after  lines,  stanzas  upon  stan- 
zas, in  a  sweet,  low,  melancholy  voice,  on  long 
winter  evenings  when  occasionally  the  burden 
of  his  troubles  would  be  lighter  to  him  than 
was  usual.  Books  in  Latin  and  in  French  he 
read  with  as  much  ease  as  in  English,  and  took 
delight  in  such  as  came  to  him  when  he  would 
condescend  to  accept  such  loans  from  the  dean- 
ery. And  there  was  at  times  a  lightness  of  heart 
about  the  man.  In  the  course  of  the  last  winter 
he  had  translated  into  Greek  irregular  verse  the 
very  noble  ballad  of  Lord  Bateman,  maintain- 
ing the  rhythm  and  the  rhyme,  and  had  repeat- 
ed it  with  uncouth  glee  till  his  daughter  knew 
it  all  by  heart.  And  when  there  had  come  to 
him  a  five-pound  note  from  some  admiring  mag- 
azine editor  as  the  price  of  the  same  — still 
through  the  dean's  hands — he  had  brightened 
up  his  heart,  and  had  thought  for  an  hour  or 
two  that  even  yet  the  world  would  smile  upon 
him.  His  wife  knew  well  that  he  was  not  mad; 
but  yet  she  knew  that  there  were  dark  moments 
with  him,  in  which  his  mind  was  so  mucli  astray 
that  he  could  not  justly  be  called  to  account  as 
to  what  he  might  remember  and  what  he  might 
forget.  How  would  it  be  possible  to  explain  all 
this  to  a  judge  and  juiy,  so  that  they  might  nei- 
ther say  that  he  was  dishonest,  nor  yet  that  he 
was  mad?  "Perhaps  he  picked  it  up,  and  had 
forgotten,"  her  daughter  said  to  her.  Perhaps 
it  was  so,  but  she  might  not  as  jct  admit  as 
much  even  to  her  child. 

"  It  is  a  mystery,  dear,  as  yet,  which,  with 
God's  aid,  will  be  unraveled.  Of  one  tiling  we 
at  least  may  be  sure :  that  your  papa  has  not 
willfully  done  any  thing  wrong." 

"Of  course  we  are  sure  of  that,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Crawley  had  many  troubles  during  the 
next  four  or  five  days,  of  which  the  worst,  per- 
haps, had  reference  to  the  services  of  the  Suri- 
day  which  intervened  between  the  day  of  her 
visit  to  Silvcrbridge  and  the  sitting  of  the  mag- 
istrates. On  the  Saturday-  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  prepare  his  sermons,  of  which  ha 
preached  two  on  every  Sunday,  though  his  con- 
gregation consisted  only  of  farmers,  brickmak- 
ers,  and  agricultural  laborers,  who  would  will- 
ingly have  dispensed  with  the  second.  Mrs. 
Crawley  proposed  to  send  over  to  Mr.  Robarts, 
a  neighboring  clergyman,  for  the  loan  of  a  cu- 
rate. Mr.  Robarts  was  a  warm  friend  to  the 
Crawleys,  and  in  such  an  emergency  would 
probably  have  come  himself;  but  Mr.  Crawley 
would  not  hear  of  it.  The  discussion  took  place 
early  on  the  Saturday  morning,  before  it  was 
as  yet  daylight,  for  the  poor  woman  was  think- 
ing day  and  night  of  her  husband's  troubles, 
and  it  had  this  good  effect,  that  immediately 
after  breakfast  he  seated  himself  at  his  desk, 
and  worked  at  his  task  as  though  he  had  for- 
gotten all  else  in  the  world. 

And  on  the  Sundav  morning  he  went  into 


24 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


his  school  before  the  hour  of  the  church  service, 
as  liiul  been  his  wont,  :\m\  taught  there  as  thou^^h 
cvcrv  thiiijj  wiili  iiiin  was  as  usuiil.  Some  of 
the  cliilJreu  were  absent,  haviiif^  iienrcl  of  their 
tcaciier's  tribuhition,  and  havinj;  been  toUi  ]iroh- 
ably  that  lie  would  remit  his  work ;  and  for 
those  absent  ones  lie  sent  in  great  anger.  The 
poor  bairns  came  creeping  in,  for  he  was  a  man 
w!io  by  his  manners  had  been  able  to  secure 
their  obedience  in  spite  of  his  ])overty.  And  ho 
jtreached  to  the  iicojjle  of  his  parish  on  that 
.SundMv  as  he  had  always  jircached ;  eagerly, 
clearly,  with  an  eloquence  fitted  for  the  liearts 
of  such  an  audience.  No  one  would  have 
guessed  from  his  tones  and  gestures  and  ajj- 
pearancc  on  that  occasion  tliat  there  was  aught 
wrong  with  him — unless  there  had  been  there 
some  observer  keen  enough  to  jjcrccive  tliat  the 
greater  care  which  he  used,  and  the  s])ccial 
eagerness  of  his  words,  denoted  a  special  frame 
of  mind. 

After  that,  after  tliosc  church  services  were 
over,  he  sank  again,  and  never  roused  himself 
till  the  dreaded  day  had  come. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT    THE    AVORLD   THOUGHT   ABOUT    IT. 

Opinion  in  Silverhridge,  at  Barclicster,  and 
throughout  the  county  was  very  much  divided 
as  to  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  j\Ir.  Crawley. 
\]p  to  the  time  of  Mrs.  Crawley's  visit  to  Sil- 
verhridge the  affair  had  not  been  much  dis- 
cussed. To  give  Mr.  Soames  his  due,  ho  had 
been  by  no  means  anxious  to  press  the  matter 
against  the  clergyman  ;  but  he  had  been  forced 
to  go  on  with  it.  While  the  first  check  was 
missing  Lord  Liifton  had  sent  him  a  second 
check  for  the  money,  and  the  loss  had  thus 
fallen  upon  his  lordship.  The  check  had  of 
course  been  traced,  and  inquiry  had  of  course 
been  made  as  to  Mr.  Crawley's  possession  of  it. 
When  that  gentleman  declared  that  he  had  re- 
ceived it  from  Mr.  Soames,  Sir.  Soames  had 
been  forced  to  contradict  and  to  resent  such  an 
assertion.  When  IMr.  Crawley  had  afterward 
said  that  the  money  had  come  to  him  from  the 
dean,  and  when  the  dean  had  shown  that  this 
also  was  untrue,  Mv.  Soames,  confident  as  he 
was  tliat  he  had  dropped  the  pocket-book  at  Mr. 
Crawley's  house,  could  not  but  continue  the  in- 
vestigation, lie  had  done  so  with  as  much  si- 
lence as  the  nature  of  the  work  admitted.  But 
by  the  day  of  the  magistrates'  meeting  at  Sil- 
verhridge the  subject  had  become  common 
through  the  county,  and  men's  minds  were  very 
much  divided. 

All  Hogglestock  believed  their  parson  to  be 
innocent ;  but  then  all  Hogglestock  believed 
him  to  be  mad.  At  Silverhridge  the  tradesmen 
with  whom  he  had  dealt,  and  to  whom  he  had 
owed,  and  still  owed,  money,  all  declared  him 
to  be  innocent.  They  knew  something  of  the 
man  personally,  and  could  not  believe  him  to 


he  a  thief.  All  the  ladies  in  Silverhridge,  too, 
were  sure  of  his  innocence.  It  was  to  them  im- 
possible that  such  a  man  should  have  stolen 
twenty  pounds.  "My  dear,"  said  the  eldest 
Miss  Prcttyman  to  poor  Grace  Crawley,  "  in 
Enghmjl,  where  the  laws  are  good,  no  gcntle- 
m.iii  is  ever  made  out  to  be  guilty  when  he  is 
innocent ;  and  your  papa,  of  course,  is  innocent. 
Therefore  you  should  not  trouble  yourself." 
"It  will  break  pajia's  heart,"  Grace  had  said, 
and  she  did  trouble  herself.  But  the  gentlemen 
in  Silverhridge  were  made  of  sterner  stulf,  and 
believed  the  man  to  be  guilty,  clergyman  and 
gentleman  though  he  was.  Sir.  Walker,  who 
among  the  liglits  in  Silverhridge  was  the  lead- 
ing light,  would  not  sjieak  a  word  upon  the  sub- 
ject to  any  body ;  and  then  every  body  wlio 
was  any  body  knew  that  Mr.  Walker  was  con- 
vinced of  the  man's  guilt.  Had  Mr.  Walker 
believed  him  to  be  innocent  his  tongue  would 
have  been  ready  enough.  John  Walker,  who 
was  in  the  Iiabitof  laughing  at  his  father's  good 
nature,  had  no  doubt  upon  the  subject.  Mr. 
Winthrop,  Mr.  Walker's  partner,  shook  his  head. 
People  did  not  think  much  of  Mr.  Winthrop, 
excepting  certain  nnmarried  ladies  ;  for  Mr. 
Winthrop  was  a  bachelor,  and  had  plenty  of 
money.  People  did  not  think  much  of  Mr. 
Winthrop ;  but  still  on  this  subject  he  might 
know  something,  and  when  he  shook  his  head 
he  manifestly  intended  to  indicate  guilt.  And 
l)r.  Tempest,  the  rector  of  Silverhridge,  did  not 
hesitate  to  declare  his  belief  in  the  guilt  of  the 
incumbent  of  Hogglestock.  No  man  rever- 
ences a  clergyman,  as  a  clergyman,  so  slightly 
as  a  brother  clergyman.  To  Dr.  Tempest  it 
ajipeared  to  be  neither  very  strange  nor  very 
terrible  that  Sir.  Crawley  should  have  stolen 
twenty  pounds.  "What  is  a  man  to  do,"  he 
said,  "when  he  sees  his  children  starving? 
He  should  not  have  married  on  such  a  ])rcfer- 
ment  as  that."  Mr.  Crawley  had  married, 
however,  long  before  he  got  the  living  of  Hog- 
glestock. 

There  were  two  Lady  Luftons — mother-in- 
law  and  daughter-in-law — who  at  this  time 
were  living  together  at  Framlcy  Hall,  Lord 
Lufton's  seat  in  the  county  of  Barset,  and  they 
were  both  thoroughly  convinced  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's innocence.  The  elder  lady  had  lived 
much  among  clergymen,  and  could  hardly,  I 
think,  by  any  means  have  been  brought  to  be- 
lieve in  the  guilt  of  any  man  who  had  taken 
upon  himself  the  orders  of  the  Church  of  En- 
gland. She  had  also  known  Mr.  Crawley  per- 
sonally for  some  years,  and  was  one  of  those 
who  could  not  admit  to  herself  that  any  one 
was  vile  who  had  been  near  to  herself.  She 
believed  intensely  in  the  wickedness  of  the  out- 
side world,  of  the  world  which  was  far  away 
from  herself,  and  of  which  she  never  saw  any 
thing;  but  they  who  were  near  to  lier,  and  who 
had  even  become  dear  to  her,  or  who  even  had 
been  respected  by  her,  were  made,  as  it  were, 
saints  in  her  imagination.  The}'  were  brought 
into  the  inner  circle,  and  could  hardly  be  ex- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


25 


pelled.  She  was  an  old  woman  who  tliought 
all  evil  of  those  she  did  not  know,  and  all  good 
of  those  whom  she  did  know;  and  as  she  did 
know  Mr.  Ci'awley  she  was  quite  sure  he  had 
not  stolen  IMr.  Soamcs's  twenty  pounds.  She 
did  know  Mr.  Soamesalso;  and  thus  there  was 
a  mystery  for  the  unraveling  of  which  she  was 
very  anxious.  And  the  young  Lady  Lufton 
was  equally  sure,  and  perhaps  with  better  rea- 
son for  such  certainty.  She  had,  in  truth, 
known  more  of  Mr.  Crawley  personally  than 
had  any  one  in  the  county,  unless  it  was  the 
dean.  The  younger  Lady  Lufton,  the  jiresent 
Lord  Lufton's  wife,  had  sojourned  at  one  time, 
in  Mr.  Crawley's  house,  amidst  the  Crawley 
povert}',  living  as  they  lived,  and  nursing  Mrs. 
Crawley  through  an  illness  which  had  well-nigh 
been  fatal  to  her ;  and  the  younger  Lady  Luf- 
ton believed  in  Sir.  Crawley — as  jMr.  Crawley 
also  believed  in  her. 

"It  is  quite  impossible,  my  dear,"  the  old  wo- 
man said  to  her  daughter-in-law. 

"  Quite  impossible,  my  lady."  The  dowager 
was  always  called  "my  lady,"  both  by  her  own 
daughter  and  by  lier  son's  wife,  except  in  the 
presence  of  their  cliildren,  when  she  was  ad- 
dressed as  "grandmamma."  "Think  how  well 
I  knew  him.  It's  no  use  talking  of  evidence. 
1^0  evidence  would  make  me  believe  it." 

"Nor  me  ;  and  I  think  it  a  great  shame  that 
such  a  report  should  be  spread  about." 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Soames  could  not  help  him- 
self?" said  the  younger  lady,  who  was  not  her- 
self very  fond  of  Mr.  Soames. 

"Ludovic  says  that  he  has  only  done  what 
he  was  obliged  to  do."  The  Ludovic  spokeiv 
of  was  Lord  Lufton. 

This  took  place  in  the  morning,  but  in  the 
evening  the  affair  was  again  discussed. at  Fram- 
ley  Hall.  Indeed,  for  some  days  there  was 
hardly  any  other  subject  held  to  be  worthy  of 
discussion  in  the  county.  Mr.  Robarts,  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  parish  and  the  brother  of  the 
younger  Lady  Lufton,  was  dining  at  the  hall 
with  his  Avife,  and  the  three  ladies  had  together 
expressed  their  perfect  conviction  of  the  false- 
ness of  the  accusation.  But  when  Lord  Lufton 
and  Mr.  Robarts  were  together  after  the  ladies 
had  left  them  there  was  much  less  of  this  cer- 
tainty expressed.  "  By  Jove  !"  said  Lord  Luf- 
ton, "  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  it.  I  wish 
with  all  my  heart  that  Soames  had  said  nothing 
about  it,  and  that  the  check  had  passed  without 
remark." 

"That  was  impossible.  When  the  banker 
sent  to  Soames  he  was  obliged  to  take  the  mat- 
ter up." 

"Of  course  he  was.  But  I'm  sorry  that  it 
was  so.  For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  conceive  how 
tlie  check  got  into  Crawley's  hands." 

"I  imagine  that  it  had  been  lying  in  the 
liouse,  and  that  Crawley  had  come  to  think  that 
it  was  his  own." 

"But,  my  dear  Mark,"  said  Lord  Lufton, 
"excuse  me  if  I  say  that  that's  nonsense.  What 
do  we  do  when  a  poor  man  has  come  to  think 
B 


that  another  man's  property  is  his  own?  We 
send  him  to  prison  for  making  the  mistake." 

"I  hope  they  won't  send  Crawley  to  prison." 

"I  hope  so  too;  but  what  is  a  jury  to  do?" 

"You  think  it  will  go  to  a  jury,  then?" 

"I  do,"  said  Lord  Lufton.  "I  don't  see 
how  the  magistrates  can  save  themselves  from 
committing  him.  It  is  one  of  those  cases  in 
which  every  one  concerned  would  wish  to  drop 
it  if  it  were  only  possible.  But  it  is  not  possi- 
ble. On  the  evidence,  as  one  sees  it  at  present, 
one  is  bound  to  say  that  it  is  a  case  for  a  jury." 

"I  believe  that  he  is  mad,"  said  tlie  brother 
parson. 

"  He  always  was,  as  far  as  I  could  learn," 
said  the  lord.  "I  never  knew  him  myself. 
You  do,  I  think  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  know  him."  And  the  vicar 
of  Framley  became  silent  and  thoughtful  as  the 
memory  of  a  certain  interview  between  himself 
and  Mr.  Crawley  came  back  upon  his  mind. 
At  that  time  the  waters  bad  nearly  closed  over 
his  head,  and  Mr.  Crawley  had  given  him  some 
assistance.  When  the  gentlemen  had  again 
found  the  ladies  they  kept  their  own  doubts  to 
themselves ;  for  at  Framley  Hall,  as  at  present 
tenanted,  female  voices  and  female  influences 
predominated  over  those  which  came  from  the 
other  sex. 

At  Barchcster,  the  cathedral  city  of  the  coun- 
ty in  which  the  Crawleys  lived,  opinion  was  vio- 
lently against  Mr.  Crawley.  In  the  city  Mrs. 
Proudie,  the  wife  of  the  bishop,  was  the  leader 
of  opinion  in  general,  and  she  was  very  strong 
in  her  belief  of  the  man's  guilt.  She  had  known 
much  of  clergymen  all  her  life,  as  it  behooved  a 
bishop's  wife  to  do,  and  she  had  iione  of  tliat 
mingled  weakness  and  ignorance  which  taught 
so  many  ladies  in  Bersetshire  to  suppose  that  an 
ordained  clergyman  could  not  become  a  thief. 
She  hated  old  Lady  Lufton  with  all  her  heart, 
and  old  Lady  Lufton  hated  her  as  warmly.. 
Mrs.  Proudie  would  say  frequently  that  Lady 
Lufton  was  a  conceited  old  idiot,  and  Lady  Luf- 
ton would  declare  as  frequently  that  Mrs.  Prou- 
die was  a  vulgar  virago.  It  was  known  at  the 
palace  in  Barchester  that  kindness  had  been 
shown  to  the  Crawleys  by  the  family  at  Framley 
Hall,  and  this  alone  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  make  Mrs.  Proudie  believe  that  Mr.  Crawley 
could  have  been  guilty  of  any  crime.  And  as 
Mrs.  Proudie  believed,  so  did  the  bishop  be- 
lieve. "  It  is  a  terrible  disgrace  to  the  diocese," 
said  the  bishop,  shaking  his  head,  and  patting 
his  apron  as  he  sat  by  his  study  fire. 

"Fiddle-stick  !"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"But,  my  dear — a  beneficed  clergyman  !" 

"  You  must  get  rid  of  him;  that's  all.  You 
must  be  firm  whether  he  be  acquitted  or  con- 
victed." 

"But  if  he  be  acquitted  I  can  not  get  rid  of 
him,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  you  can,  if  you  are  firm.  And  you 
must  be  firm.  Is  it  not  true  that  he  has  been 
disgracefully  involved  in  debt  ever  since  he  has 
been  there ;  that  you  have  been  pestered  by  let- 


2G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ters  from  uufoitimatc  tradesmen  \vIio  can  not 
get  their  money  from  Iiim?" 

"Tliiit  is  true,  my  ilear,  certainly." 

"And  is  tliat  kind  of  thing  to  j,'0  on?  lie 
can  not  come  to  the  jiahicc  as  all  clergymen 
should  do,  because  he  has  got  no  clothes  to  come 
in.  I  saw  him  once  about  the  lanes,  and  I  npver 
set  my  eyes  on  such  an  object  in  my  life !  I 
would  not  believe  liiat  the  man  was  a  clergyman 
till  John  told  me.  He  is  a  disgrace  to  the  dio- 
cese, and  he  must  be  got  rid  of.  I  feel  sure  of 
Lis  guilt,  and  I  hope  he  will  be  convicted.  One 
is  bound  to  hope  that  a  guilty  man  should  be 
convicted.  But  if  he  csca])e  conviction  you 
must  sequestrate  the  living  because  of  the  debts. 
The  income  is  cnougli  to  get  an  excellent  curate. 
It  would  just  do  for  Thumble."  To  all  of  which 
the  bishoj)  made  no  further  reply,  but  simply 
nodded  his  head  and  patted  his  apron.  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  do  exactly  what  his  wife 
required  of  him ;  but  if  it  should  so  turn  out 
that  poor  Crawley  was  found  to  be  guilty,  then 
the  matter  would  be  comjiaratively  easy. 

"It  should  be  an  example  to  us,  that  we 
should  look  to  our  own  steps,  my  dear,"  said  the 
bishop. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Sirs.  Proudie ; 
"but  it  has  become  your  duty,  and  mine  too, 
to  look  to  the  steps  of  other  people ;  and  that 
duty  we  must  do." 

"Of  course,  my  dear;  of  course."  That 
was  the  tone  in  which  the  question  of  Mr. 
Crawley's  alleged  guilt  was  discussed  at  the 
palace. 

We  have  already  heard  what  was  said  on  the 
subject  at  the  house  of  Archdeacon  Grantlj'.  As 
the  days  passed  by,  and  as  other  tidings  came 
in,  confirmatory  of  those  which  had  before 
reached  him,  the  archdeacon  felt  himself  unable 
not  to  believe  in  the  man's  guilt.  And  the  fear 
whicli  he  entertained  as  to  his  son's  intended 
•marriage  with  Grace  Crawley  tended  to  increase 
the  strength  of  his  belief.  Dr.  Grantly  had 
been  a  very  successful  man  in  the  world,  and  on 
all  ordinary  occasions  had  been  able  to  show 
that  bold  front  with  which  success  endows  a 
man.  But  he  still  had  his  moments  of  weakness, 
and  feared  greatly  lest  any  thing  of  misfortune 
should  touch  him,  and  mar  the  comely  round- 
ness of  his  prosperity.  He  was  very  wealthy. 
The  wife  of  his  bosom  had  been  to  him  all  that 
a  wife  sliould  be.  His  reputation  in  the  clerical 
world  stood  very  high.  He  had  lived  all  his  life 
on  terms  of  equality  with  the  best  of  the  gentry 
around  him.  His  only  daughter  had  made  a 
splendid  man-iage.  His  two  sons  had  hitherto 
done  well  in  the  world,  not  only  as  regarded  their 
happiness,  but  as  to  marriage  also,  and  as  to  so- 
cial standing.  But  how  great  would  be  the  fall 
if  his  son  should  at  last  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
convicted  thief!  How  would  the  Proudies  re- 
joice over  him — the  Proudies  who  had  been 
crushed  to  the  ground  by  the  success  of  the  Har- 
tletop  alliance ;  and  how  would  the  low-church 
curates,  who  swarmed  in  Barsetsliire,  gather  to- 
gether and  scream  in  delight  over  his  dismay ! 


"But  why  should  we  say  that  he  is  guilty?" 
said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  It  hardly  matters  as  far  as  we  are  concerned 
whether  they  find  him  guilty  or  not,"  said  the 
archdeacon;  "if  Henry  marries  that  girl  my 
heart  will  be  broken." 

But  jjcrhaps  to  no  one  except  to  the  Crawleys 
themselves  had  the  matter  caused  so  much  ter- 
rible anxiety  as  to  the  archdeacon's  son.  Ho 
had  told  his  father  that  he  had  made  no  offer 
of  marriage  to  Grace  Crawley,  and  he  had  told 
the  truth.  But  there  are  perhaps  few  men  who 
make  such  offers  in  direct  terms  without  having 
already  said  and  done  that  which  make  such 
offers  sim])ly  necessary  as  the  final  closing  of  an 
accepted  bargain.  It  was  so  at  any  rate  between 
Major  Grantly  and  Miss  Crawley,  and  Major 
Grantly  acknowledged  to  himself  that  it  was  so. 
He  acknowledged  also  to  himself  that  as  regard- 
ed Grace  herself  he  had  no  wish  to  go  back  from 
his  imjdied  intentions.  Notiiing  that  either  his 
father  or  mother  might  say  would  shake  him  in 
that.  But  could  it  be  his  duty  to  bind  himself 
to  the  family  of  a  convicted  thief?  Could  it  be 
right  that  he  should  disgrace  his  father  and  his 
mother  and  his  sister  and  his  one  child  by  such 
a  connection  ?  He  had  a  man's  heart,  and  the 
poverty  of  the  Crawleys  caused  him  no  solicitude. 
But  he  shrank  from  the  contanaination  of  a 
prison. 


CHAPTER  VL 


GRACE     CRA-WLET. 


It  has  already  been  said  that  Grace  Crawler 
was  at  tliis  time  living  with  the  two  Miss  Pretty- 
mans,  who  kept  a  girls'  school  at  Silverbridge. 
Two  more  benignant  ladies  than  the  Miss  Pret- 
tymans  never  pi-esided  over  such  an  establish- 
ment. Tlie  younger  was  fat,  and  fresh,  and 
fair,  and  seemed  to  be  always  running  over  with 
tlie  milk  of  human  kindness.  The  other  was 
very  thin  and  very  small,  and  somewhat  afflicted 
with  bad  health — was  weak,  too,  in  the  eyes, 
and  subject  to  racking  headaches,  so  that  it  was 
considered  generally  that  she  was  unable  to  take 
much  active  part  in  the  education  of  tlie  pupils. 
But  it  was  considered  as  generally  that  she  did 
all  the  thinking,  that  she  knew  more  than  any 
other  woman  in  Barsetshire,  and  that  all  the 
Prettyman  schemes  for  education  emanated  from 
her  mind.  It  was  said,  too,  by  those  who  knew 
them  best,  that  her  sister's  good-nature  was  as  no- 
thing to  hers  ;  that  she  was  the  most  charitable, 
the  most  loving,  and  the  most  conscientious  of 
schoolmistresses.  This  was  Miss  Aunabella 
Prettyman,  the  elder;  and  perhaps  it  may  be 
inferred  that  some  portion  of  her  great  character 
for  virtue  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that 
nobody  ever  saw  her  out  of  her  own  house. 
She  could  not  even  go  to  church,  because  the 
open  air  brought  on  neuralgia.  She  was  there- 
fore perhaps  taken  to  be  magnificent,  partly  be- 
cause she  was  unknown.  Miss  Anne  Pretty- 
man, the  younger,  went  about  frequently  to  tea- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


27 


parties — would  go,  intlccJ,  to  any  jiarty  to  which 
she  might  be  invited ;  and  was  known  to  have 
a  pleasant  taste  for  pound-cake  and  sweetmeats. 
Being  seen  so  mucli  in  the  outei'  world,  slie  be- 
came common,  and  her  character  did  not  stand 
so  high  as  did  that  of  her  sister.  Some  people 
were  ill-natured  enough  to  say  that  she  wanted 
to  marry  Mr.  Winthrop;  but  of  what  maiden 
lady  that  goes  out  into  the  world  are  not  such  sto- 
ries told  ?  And  all  such  stories  in  Silvcrbridge 
were  told  with  s])ecial  reference  to  Mr.  Win- 
throp. 

Miss  Crawley,  at  jjresent,  lived  with  the  Miss 
Prettymans,  and  assisted  them  in  the  school. 
This  arrangement  had  been  going  en  for  the 
last  twelve  months,  since  the  time  in  which 
Grace  would  have  left  the  school  in  the  natural 
course  of  things.  There  had  been  no  bargain 
made,  and  no  intention  that  Grace  should  stay. 
She  had  been  invited  to  fill  the  ]ilace  of  an  ab- 
sent superintendent,  first  for  one  month,  then 
for  another,  and  then  for  two  more  months ; 
and  when  the  assistant  came  back  the  Miss 
Prettymans  thought  there  were  reasons  why 
Grace  should  be  asked  to  remain  a  little  longer. 
But  they  took  great  care  to  let  the  fashionable 
world  of  Silvcrbridge  know  that  Grace  Crawley 
was  a  visitor  with  them,  and  not  a  teacher. 
"■\Ye  pay  her  no  salary,  or  any  thing  of  that 
kind,"  said  Miss  Anne  Prcttyman  ;  a  statement, 
however,  which  was  by  no  means  true,  for  dur- 
ing those  four  months  the  regular  stipend  had 
been  paid  to  her ;  and  twice  since  then  Miss 
Annabella  Prettyman,  who  managed  all  the 
money-matters,  had  called  Grace  into  her  little 
room,  and  had  made  a  little  speech,  and  had 
put  a  little  bit  of  paper  into  her  hand.  "I 
know  I  ought  not  to  take  it,"  Grace  had  said  to 
her  friend  Anne.  "If  I  was  not  here  t'.icre 
would  be  no  one  in  my  place."  "Nonsense, 
my  dear,"  Anne  Prettyman  had  said;  "it  is 
the  greatest  comfort  to  us  in  the  world.  And 
you  should  make  yourself  nice,  you  know,  for 
liis  sake.  All  the  gentlemen  like  it."  Then 
Grace  had  been  very  angry,  and  had  sworn  that 
she  would  give  the  money  back  again.  Never- 
theless, I  think  she  did  make  herself  as  nice  as 
she  knew  how  to  do.  And  from  all  this  it  may 
be  seen  that  the  Miss  Prettymans  had  hitherto 
quite  appi'oved  of  Major  Grantly's  attentions. 

But  when  this  terrible  affair  came  on  about 
the  check  which  had  been  lost  and  found  and 
traced  to  Mr.  Crawley's  hands,  Miss  Anne  Pret- 
tyman said  nothing  further  to  Grace  Crawley 
about  Major  Grantl}'.  It  was  not  that  she 
thought  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  guilty,  but  she 
knew  enough  of  the  world  to  be  aware  that  sus- 
picion of  such  guilt  might  compel  such  a  man 
as  Major  Grantly  to  change  his  mind.  "If  he 
had  only  popped,"  Anne  said  to  her  sister,  "it 
would  have  been  all  rigiit.  He  would  never 
have  gone  back  from  his  word."  "My  dear," 
said  Annabella,  "I  wish  you  would  not  talk 
about  po])ping.  It  is  a  terrible  word."  "I 
shouldn't  to  any  one  except  you,"  said  Anne. 

Tiicrc  had  come  to  Silvcrbridge  some  few 


months  since,  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Walker,  a 
young  lady  from  Allington,  in  the  neighboring 
county,  between  wliom  and  Grace  Crawley  there 
had  grown  up  from  circumstances  a  warm  fiiend- 
ship.  Grace  had  a  cousin  in  London — a  clerk 
high  up  and  well-to-do  in  a  public  office,  a 
nejjhew  of  her  mother's — and  this  cousin  was, 
and  for  years  had  been,  violently  smitten  in  love 
for  this  young  lady.  But  the  young  lady's  tale 
had  been  sad,  and  though  she  acknowledged 
feelings  of  most  affectionate  friendship  for  the 
cousin,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  acknowl- 
edge more.  Grace  Crawley  had  met  the  young 
lady  at  Silvcrbridge,  and  words  had  been  spoken 
about  the  cousin ;  and  though  tlie  young  lady 
from  Allington  was  some  years  older  than  Grace, 
there  had  grown  up  to  be  a  friendship,  and,  as 
is  not  uncommon  between  young  ladies,  there 
had  been  an  agreement  that  they  would  corre- 
spond. The  name  of  the  lady  was  Miss  Lily 
Dale,  and  the  name  of  the  well-to-do  cousin  in 
London  was  Mr.  John  Eames. 

At  the  present  moment  Miss  Dale  was  at  home 
with  her  mother  at  Allington,  and  Grace  Craw- 
ley in  her  terrible  sorrow  wrote  to  her  friend, 
pouring  out  her  whole  heart.  As  Grace's  letter 
and  Miss  Dale's  answer  will  assist  us  in  our  story, 
I  will  venture  to  give  them  both  : 

"  Sii.VERiiEiDGE,  —  Deccmher^  ISO-. 
"  Deari;st  Lily, — I  hardly  know  how  to  tell 
you  what  has  ha))pened,  it  is  so  very  terrible. 
But  perhaps  you  ^\iIl  liave  heard  it  already,  as 
every  body  is  talking  of  it  here.  It  has  got  into 
the  newspapers,  and  therefore  it  can  not  be  kept 
secret.  Not  that  I  should  keep  any  thing  from 
you  ;  only  this  is  so  very  dreadful  that  I  hardly 
know  how  to  write  it.  Somebody  says — a  Mr. 
Soamcs,  I  believe,  it  is — that  papa  has  taken 
some  money  that  does  not  belong  to  him,  and  he 
is  to  be  brought  before  the  magistrates  and  tried. 
Of  course  papa  has  done  nothing  wrong.  I  do 
think  he  would  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
take  a  \)C\m\  that  did  not  belong  to  him.  You 
know  how  poor  he  is  ;  what  a  life  he  has  had ! 
But  I  think  he  would  almost  sooner  see  mamma 
starving — I  am  sure  he  would  rather  be  starved 
himself,  than  even  borrow  a  shilling  which  he 
could  not  pay.  To  suppose  that  he  would  take 
money"  (she  had  tried  to  write  the  word  "steal," 
but  she  could  not  bring  her  pen  to  form  the  let- 
ters) "is  monstrous.  But,  somehow,  the  cir- 
cumstances  have  been  made  to  look  bad  against 
him,  and  they  say  that  he  must  come  over  here  to 
the  magistrates.  I  often  think  that  of  all  men 
in  the  world  papa  is  the  most  unfortunate. 
Every  thing  seems  to  go  against  him,  and  yet 
he  is  so  good !  Poor  mamma  has  been  over 
here,  and  she  is  distracted.  I  never  saw  her  so 
wretched  before.  She  had  been  to  your  friend, 
JMr.  Walker,  and  came  to  me  afterward  for  a 
minute.  Mr.  Walker  has  got  something  to  do 
with  it,  though  mamma  says  she  thinks  he  is 
quite  friendly  to  papa.  I  wonder  whether  you 
could  find  out,  through  Mr.  Walker,  what  he 
thinks  about  it.     Of  course  mamma  knows  that 


28 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


jiapa  has  done  nothing  wronp ;  but  she  says  that 
the  whole  thin;;  is  nius:  nivsterioiis,  and  that  she 
docs  not  know  liow  to  account  for  the  money. 
Papa,  you  know,  is  not  like  otiier  pcoiile.  lie 
for;,'ots  things;  and  is  always  tliinkinp,  thinkinj.', 
tliinking  of  his  great  misfortunes.  I'oor  papal 
My  iieart  bleeds  so  when  I  remember  all  his  sor- 
rows that  I  hate  myself  for  thinking  about  mv- 
sclf. 

*'  When  mamma  left  me — and  it  was  then  I 
first  knew  that  jiajia  would  really  have  to  be 
tried— I  went  to  Miss  Annabella,  and  told  her 
that  I  would  go  home.  Slic  asked  me  why,  and 
I  said  I  would  not  disgrace  her  house  by  staying 
in  it.  She  got  uj)  and  took  me  in  her  arms,  and 
there  came  a  tear  out  of  both  her  dear  old  eyes, 
and  she  said  that  if  any  thing  evil  came  to  papa 
— which  she  would  not  believe,  as  she  knew  him 
to  be  a  good  man — tlicrc  should  be  a  home  in 
her  house  not  only  for  me,  but  for  mamma  and 
Jane.  Isn't  she  a  wonderful  woman  ?  When 
I  think  of  her  I  sometimes  think  that  she  must 
be  an  angel  already.  Then  she  became  very 
serious — for  just  before,  through  her  tears,  she 
had  tried  to  smile — and  she  told  me  to  remem- 
ber that  all  people  could  not  be  like  her,  who 
had  nobody  to  look  to  but  herself  and  her  sister  ; 
and  tiiat  at  present  I  must  task  myself  not  to 
think  of  that  which  I  had  been  thinking  of  be- 
fore. She  did  not  mention  any  body's  name, 
but  of  course  I  understood  very  well  what  she 
meant ;  and  I  suppose  she  is  right.  I  said  no- 
thing in  answer  to  her,  for  I  could  not  speak. 
She  was  holding  my  hand,  and  I  took  hers  up 
and  kissed  it,  to  show  her,  if  I  could,  that  I  knew 
that  she  was  right ;  but  I  could  not  have  spoken 
about  it  for  all  the  world.  It  was  not  ten  days 
since  that  she  herself,  with  all  her  prudence, 
told  me  that  she  thought  I  ought  to  make  up  my 
mind  what  answer  I  would  give  him.  And 
tlien  I  did  not  say  any  thing ;  but  of  course  slie 
knew.  And  after  that  Miss  Anne  spoke  quite 
freely  about  it,  so  that  I  had  to  beg  her  to  be 
silent  even  before  the  girls.  You  know  how  impru- 
dent slie  is.  But  it  is  all  over  now.  Of  course 
Miss  Annabella  is  right.  He  has  got  a  great 
many  people  to  think  of;  his  fiither  and  mother, 
and  his  darling  little  Edith,  whom  he  brought 
here  twice,  and  left  her  with  us  once  for  two 
days,  so  that  she  got  to  know  me  quite  well ;  and 
I  took  such  a  love  for  her  that  I  could  not  bear 
to  part  with  her.  But  I  think  sometimes  that 
all  our  family  are  born  to  be  unfortunate,  and 
then  I  tell  myself  that  I  will  never  hope  for  any 
thing  again. 

"Pray  write  to  me  soon.  I  feel  as  though 
nothing  on  earth  could  comfort  me,  and  yet  I 
shall  like  to  have  your  letter.  Dear,  dear  Lily, 
I  am  not  even  yet  so  wretched  but  what  I  shall 
rejoice  to  be  told  good  news  of  you.  If  it  only 
could  be  as  John  wishes  it !  And  why  should 
it  not  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  nobody  has  a  right 
or  a  reason  to  be  unhappy  except  as.  Good-l)y, 
dearest  Lily, 

"Your  affectionate  friend, 

' '  GiiACE  Cka^vlet. 


"P.S. — I  think  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  will  go  back  to  Ilogglestock  at  once  if 
the  magistrates  decide  against  papa.  I  think  I 
shoidd  be  doing  the  school  harm  if  I  were  to 
stay  here." 

The  answer  to  this  letter  did  not  reach  Miss 
Crawley  till  after  the  magistrates'  meeting  on 
the  Thursday,  but  it  will  be  better  for  our  story 
that  it  should  be  given  here  than  jjostpoued  un- 
til the  result  of  that  meeting  shall  have  been 
told.     Miss  Dale's  answer  was  as  follows  : 

"  Ai.i,i.n(;ton,  —  December,  1S6-. 

"Dkau  Gkack, — Your  letter  has  made  me 
very  unhajipy.  If  it  can  at  all  comfort  you  to 
know  that  mamma  and  I  symjiathize  with  you 
altogether,  in  that  you  may  at  any  rate  be  sure. 
But  in  such  troubles  nothing  will  give  comfort. 
They  must  be  borne  till  the  fire  of  misfortune 
burns  itself  out. 

"I  had  heard  about  the  affair  a  day  or  two 
before  I  got  your  note.  Our  clergyman,  Mr. 
Boyce,  told  us  of  it.  Of  course  we  all  know 
that  the  charge  must  be  altogether  unfounded, 
and  mamma  says  that  the  truth  will  be  sure  to 
show  itself  at  last.  But  that  conviction  does 
not  cure  the  evil,  and  I  can  well  understand 
that  your  father  should  suffer  grievously ;  and 
I  j>ity  your  mother  quite  as  much  as  I  do  him. 

"As  for  INIajor  Grantly,  if  he  be  such  a  man 
as  I  took  him  to  be  from  the  little  I  saw  of  him, 
all  this  would  make  no  difi'erence  to  him.  I  am 
sure  that  it  ought  to  make  none.  Wliether  it 
should  not  make  a  difference  in  you  is  another 
question.  I  think  it  should;  and  I  think  your 
answer  to  him  should  be  that  you  could  not 
even  consider  any  such  proj)osition  while  your 
father  was  in  so  great  trouble.  I  am  so  much 
older  than  you,  and  seem  to  have  had  so  much 
experience,  that  I  do  not  scruple,  as  you  will 
see,  to  come  down  upon  you  with  all  the  weight 
of  my  wisdom. 

"About  that  other  subject  I  had  rather  say 
nothing.  I  have  known  your  cousin  all  my 
life  almost ;  and  I  regard  no  one  more  kindly 
than  I  do  him.  When  I  tliink  of  my  friends, 
he  is  always  one  of  the  dearest.  But  when  one 
thinks  of  going  beyond  friendship,  even  if  one 
tries  to  do  so,  there  are  so  many  barriers ! 
"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"Lily  Dale. 

"Mamma  bids  me  say  that  she  would  be  de- 
lighted to  have  you  here  wlienever  it  might  suit 
you  to  come ;  and  I  add  to  this  message  my  en- 
treaty that  you  will  come  at  once.  You  say 
that  you  think  you  ought  to  leave  Miss  Prett}'- 
man's  for  a  while.  I  can  well  understand  your 
feeling;  but  as  your  sister  is  with  your  mother 
surely  you  had  better  come  to  us — I  mean  quite 
at  once.  I  will  not  scruple  to  tell  you  what 
mamma  says,  because  I  know  your  good  sense. 
She  says  that  as  the  interest  of  the  school  may 
possibly  be  concerned,  and  as  you  have  no  reg- 
ular engagement,  she  thinks  }'0U  ought  to  leave 
Silverbridge  ;  but  slie  says  that  it  will  be  better 
that  you  come  to  us  than  that  you  should  go 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


29 


home.  If  you  went  home  people  might  say 
that  you  had  left  in  some  sort  of  disgrace. 
Come  to  us,  and  wlien  all  this  has  been  put 
right  tlien  you  go  back  to  Silverbridge  ;  and 
then,  if  a  certain  ])erson  s])eaks  again,  you  can 
make  a  different  answer.  IMamma  quite  under- 
stands that  you  are  to  come  ;  so  you  have  only 
got  to  ask  your  own  mamma,  and  come  at  once." 

This  letter,  as  the  reader  will  understand,  did 
not  reach  Grace  Crawley  till  after  tho  all-im- 
portant Thursday ;  but  before  that  day  had 
come  round  Grace  had  told  Miss  I'rettyman — 
had  told  both  tlie  Miss  Prettymans — that  she 
was  resolved  to  leave  them.  She  had  done  this 
without  even  consulting  her  mother,  driven  to 
it  by  various  motives.  She  knew  that  her  fa- 
ther's conduct  was  being  discussed  by  the  girls 
in  the  school,  and  that  things  were  said  of  him 
which  it  could  not  but  be  for  the  disadvantage 
of  Miss  Prettyman  that  any  one  should  say  of 
a  teacher  in  her  establishment.  She  felt,  too, 
that  she  could  not  hold  up  her  head  in  Silver- 
bridge  in  these  days,  as  it  would  become  her  to 
do  if  she  retained  her  position.  She  did  strug- 
gle gallantly,  and  succeeded  much  more  nearly 
than  slie  was  herself  aware.  She  was  all  but  able 
to  carry  herself  as  though  no  terrible  accusation 
was  being  made  against  her  father.  Of  the  strug- 
gle, however,  she  was  not  herself  the  less  con- 
scious, and  she  told  herself  that  on  that  account 
also  she  must  go.  And  then  she  must  go  also 
because  of  IMajor  Grantly.  Whether  he  was 
minded  to  come  and  speak  to  her  that  one  other 
needed  word,  or  whether  he  was  not  so  minded, 
it  would  be  better  that  slie  sliould  be  away  from 
Silverbridge.  If  he  spoke  it  she  could  only  an- 
swer him  by  a  negative  :  and  if  he  were  mind- 
ed not  to  sjieak  it,  would  it  not  be  better  that 
she  should  leave  herself  the  power  of  thinking 
that  his  silence  had  been  caused  by  her  absence, 
and  not  by  liis  coldness  or  indifference? 

She  asked,  therefore,  for  an  interview  with 
Miss  Prettyman,  and  was  shown  into  the  elder 
sister's  room  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  Tuesday 
morning.  The  elder  Miss  Prettyman  never 
came  into  the  school  herself  till  twelve,  but  was 
in  the  habit  of  having  interviews  with  the  young 
ladies  —  which  were  sometimes  very  awful  in 
their  nature — for  the  two  previous  hours.  Dur- 
ing these  interviews  an  immense  amount  of  bus- 
iness was  dune,  and  the  fortunes  in  life  of  some 
girls  were  said  to  have  been  there  made  or 
marred;  as  when,  for  instance.  Miss  Crimpton 
had  been  advised  to  stay  at  home  with  her  uncle 
in  England,  instead  of  going  out  with  her  sis- 
ters to  India,  both  of  which  sisters  were  married 
within  three  months  of  their  landing  at  Bombay. 
The  way  in  which  she  gave  her  counsel  on  such 
occasions  was  very  efficacious.  No  one  knew 
better  than  Miss  Prettyman  that  a  cock  can 
crow  most  effectively  in  his  own  farm-yard,  and 
therefore  all  crowing  intended  to  be  effective 
was  done  by  her  within  the  shrine  of  her  own 
peculiar  room. 

"Well,  my  dear,  what  is  it?"  she  said  to 


Grace.  "Sit  in  the  arm-ciiair,  my  dear,  and 
we  can  then  talk  comfortably."  The  teachers, 
when  they  were  closeted  with  Miss  Prettyman, 
were  always  asked  to  sit  in  the  arm-chair,  where- 
as a  small,  straight-backed,  uneasy  chair  was 
kept  for  the  use  of  the  young  ladies.  And  there 
was,  too,  a  stool  of  repentance,  out  against  the 
wall,  very  uncomfortable  indeed  for  young  la- 
dies who  had  not  behaved  themselves  so  pret- 
tily as  young  ladies  generally  do. 

Grace  seated  herself,  and  then  began  her 
speech  very  quickly.  "Miss  Prettyman,"  she 
said,  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  will  go 
home,  if  you  please." 

"And  why  should  you  go  liome,  Grace  ?  Did 
I  not  tell  you  that  you  should  have  a  liome  here?" 
Miss  Prettyman  had  weak  eyes,  and  was  very 
small,  and  had  never  possessed  any  claim  to  be 
called  good-looking.  And  she  assumed  nothing 
of  majestical  awe  from  any  adornment  or  studied 
amplification  of  the  outward  woman  by  means 
of  impressive  trappings.  The  possessor  of  an 
unobservant  eye  might  have  called  her  a  mean- 
looking  little  old  woman.  And  certainly  there 
would  have  been  nothing  awful  in  her  to  any 
one  who  came  across  her  otherwise  than  as  a 
lady  having  authority  in  her  own  school.  But 
within  her  own  precincts  she  did  know  how 
to  surround  herself  with  a  dignity  which  all  felt 
who  approached  her  there.  Grace  Crawley,  as 
she  heard  the  simple  question  which  Miss  Pret- 
tyman had  asked,  unconsciously  acknowledged 
the  strength  of  the  woman's  manner.  She  al- 
ready stood  rebuked  for  having  proposed  a  plan 
so  ungracious,  so  unnecessary,  and  so  unwise. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  be  with  mamma  at  pres- 
ent," said  Grace. 

"Your  mother  has  your  sister  with  her." 

"Yes,  Miss  Prettyman  ;  Jane  is  there." 

"If  there  be  no  other  reason,  I  can  not  think 
that  that  can  be  held  to  be  a  reason  now.  Of 
course  your  mother  would  like  to  have  you  al- 
ways ;  unless  you  should  be  married — but  then 
there  are  reasons  why  this  should  not  be  so." 

"  Of  course  there  are." 

"I  do  not  think — that  is,  if  I  know  all  thrft 
there  is  to  be  known — I  do  not  think,  I  say,  that 
there  can  be  any  good  ground  for  your  leaving 
us  now — just  now." 

Then  Grace  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  gatlier- 
ing  her  courage,  and  collecting  her  words  ;  and 
after  that  she  !-poke.  "It  is  because  of  papa, 
and  because  of  this  charge — " 

"But,  Grace — " 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  Miss 
Prettyman — that  is,  I  think  I  know." 

"If  you  will  hear  me  you  may  be  sure  that 
you  know." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  hear  me  for  one  moment 
first.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Prettyman ;  I 
do  indeed,  but  I  want  to  say  this  before  you  go 
on.  I  must  go  home,  and  I  know  I  ouglit.  We 
are  all  disgraced,  and  I  won't  sto])  lieve  to  dis- 
grace the  school.  I  know  jiapa  h.as  done  no- 
thing wrong  ;  but  nevertheless  we  are  disgraced. 
The  police  are  to  bring  him  in  here  on  Thurs- 


30 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


%^'^-t' 


X'^'l!,,  J     H 


■\:?-'V^ 


A^;^^ik.>  \  -:  i&^^ 


I    Ll.VE  VOU    AS   THODlill   YOU    WEUE   MY   OWN,"   SAID   THE   tJCUOOLMISTlUCSS. 


dav,  and  every  body  in  SilverLridge  will  know 
it.  It  can  not  be  right  that  I  should  l)C  here 
teaching  in  the  school  while  it  is  all  going  on — 
and  I  won't.  And,  Miss  Frettyman,  I  couldn't 
Jo  it — indeed  I  couldn't.  I  can't  bring  myself 
to  think  of  any  thing  I  am  doing — indeed  I 
cin't;  and  then,  Miss  Prettyman,  there  are 
other  reasons."  By  the  time  that  she  had  pro- 
ceeded thus  far  Grace  Crawley's  words  were 
nearly  choked  by  her  tears. 

"And  what  are  the  other  reasons,  Grace?" 


"I  don't  know,"  said  Grace,  struggling  tc 
speak  through  her  tears. 

"But  I  know,"  said  Miss  Prettyman.  "I 
know  them  all.  I  know  all  your  reasons,  and  I 
tell  you  tliat  in  my  opinion  you  ought  to  remain 
where  you  are,  and  not  go  away.  Tiie  very 
reasons  which  to  you  are  reasons  for  your  go- 
ing, to  me  arc  reasons  for  your  remaining 
here." 

"I  can't  remain.  I  am  determined  to  go. 
I  don't  mind  you  and  Miss  Anne,  but  I  can't 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


31 


bear  to  liavc  the  girls  looking  at  mc — and  tlie 
servants." 

Tlien  Miss  Prettyman  paused  a  wliile,  think- 
ing what  words  of  wisdom  would  be  most  n])pro- 
priate  in  the  present  conjuncture.  Eat  words 
of  wisdom  did  not  seem  to  come  easily  to  her, 
having  for  the  moment  been  banished  by  tender- 
ness of  heart.  "  Come  here,  my  love,"  she  said 
at  last.  "Come  here,  Grace."  Slowly  Grace 
got  up  from  her  scat,  and  caine  round  and  stood 
by  IMiss  I'rettynian's  elbow.  Miss  Prettyman 
pushed  her  chair  a  little  back,  and  pushed  her- 
self a  little  forward,  and  stretching  out  one  hand 
placed  her  arm  round  Grace's  waist,  and  with 
the  other  took  hold  of  Grace's  hand,  and  thus 
drew  her  down  and  kissed  the  girl's  forehead 
and  lips.  And  then  Grace  found  lierself  kneel- 
ing at  her  friend's  feet.  "Grace,"  she  said, 
"do  you  not  know  that  I  love  you?  Do  you 
not  know  that  I  love  you  dearly  ?"  In  answer 
to  this  Grace  kissed  the  withered  hand  she 
held  in  hers,  while  the  warm  tears  trickled 
down  upon  Miss  Prettyman's  knuckles.  "I  love 
you  as  though  you  were  my  own,"  exclaimed 
the  schoolmistress  ;  "and  will  you  not  trust  nie, 
that  I  know  what  is  best  for  you  ?" 

"I  must  go  home,"  said  Grace. 

"Of  course  you  shall,  if  you  think  it  right  at 
last ;  but  let  us  talk  of  it.  No  one  in  this  house, 
you  know,  has  the  slightest  suspicion  that  your 
father  has  done  any  thing  that  is  in  the  least 
dishonorable." 

"  I  know  that  you  have  not." 

"  No,  nor  has  Anne."  Miss  Prettyman  said 
this  as  though  no  one  in  that  hoijsc  beyond  her- 
self and  her  sister  liad  a  right  to  have  any  opin- 
ion on  any  subject. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Grace. 

"Well,  my  dear.     If  we  think  so — " 

"But  the  servants,  Miss  Prettyman?" 

"If  any  servant  in  this  house  says  a  word  to 
oifend  you,  I'll— ril—" 

"  They  don't  say  any  thing.  Miss  Prettyman, 
but  they  look.  Indeed  I'd  better  go  home. 
Indeed  I  had!" 

"Do  not  you  think  your  mother  has  cares 
enough  upon  her,  and  burden  enougli,  without 
having  another  mouth  to  feed,  and  another  head 
to  shelter?  You  haven't  thought  of  that, 
Grace!" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"  And  as  for  the  work,  while  you  are  not 
quite  well  you  sliall  not  be  troubled  with  teach- 
ing. I  have  some  old  papers  that  want  copying 
and  settling,  and  you  shall  sit  here  and  do  that 
just  for  an  employment.  Anne  knows  tliat  I've 
long  wanted  to  have  it  done,  and  I'll  tell  her 
that  you've  kindly  promised  to  do  it  for  me." 

"No;  no;  no,"  said  Grace;  "I  must  go 
home."  She  was  still  kneeling  at  Miss  Pretty- 
man's  knee,  and  still  liolding  Miss  Prettyman's 
hand.  And  then,  at  tliat  moment,  there  came 
a  tap  at  the  door,  gentle  but  yet  not  humble,  a 
tap  which  acknowledged,  on  the  part  of  tlic  tap- 
per, the  supremacy  in  that  room  of  the  lady  who 
was  sitting  there,  but  whicli  still  claimed  ad- 


mittance almost  as  a  riglit.  The  tap  was  well 
known  by  both  of  them  to  be  the  tap  of  Miss 
Anne.  Grace  immediately  jumped  up,  and 
Miss  Prettyman  settled  herself  in  lier  chair  witli 
a  motion  whicli  almost  seemed  to  indicate  some 
feeling  of  shame  as  to  her  late  position. 

"I  suppose  I  may  come  in?"  said  Miss  Anne, 
opening  the  door  and  inserting  her  head. 

"Yes,  you  may  come  in — if  you  have  any 
thing  to  say,"  said  INIiss  Prettyman,  witli  an 
air  which  seemed  to  be  intended  to  assert  her 
supremacy.  But,  in  trutli,  slie  was  simply  col- 
lecting the  wisdom  and  dignity  wliich  had  been 
somewliat  dissipated  by  her  tenderness. 

"I  did  not  know  that  Grace  Crawley  was 
here,"  said  Miss  Anne. 

"Grace  Crawley  is  here,"  said  Miss  Pretty- 
man. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Grace?"  said  I\Iiss 
Anne,  seeing  the  tears. 

"Never  mind  now,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 

"Poor  dear,  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  as  though 
she  were  my  own  sister,"  said  Anne.  "But, 
Annabella,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  especially." 

"To  me,  in  private?" 

"Yes,  to  you;  in  private,  if  Grace  won't 
mind?" 

Then  Grace  prepared  to  go.  But  as  she  was 
going  Miss  Anne,  upon  wliose  brow  a  heavy 
burden  of  tliought  was  lying,  stopped  her  sud- 
denly. "Grace,  my  dear,"  she  s.aid,  "go  up 
stairs  into  your  room,  will  you?  not  across  the 
hall  to  the  school."  .  .  ;  ■        .  . 

"And  why  shouldn't  she  go  to  the  school?" 
said  Miss  Prettyman.  ■ 

Miss  Anne  i)aused  a  moment,  apd  then  an- 
swered, unwillingly,  as  though  driven  to  make 
a  reply  which  she  knew  to  be  indiscreet.  "  Be- 
cause there  is  somebody  in  the  hall." 

"Go  to  your  room,  dear,"  said  Miss  Pretty- 
man. And  Grace  went  to  her  room,  never  turn- 
ing an  eye  down  toward  the  hall.  "Who  is 
it?"  said  jMiss  Prettyman.  ,; 

"Major  Grantly  is  here,  asking  to  sep  you," 
said  Miss  Anne. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

MISS  tkettyman's  private  rooji. 

Major  Graktly,  when  threatened  by  his  fa- 
ther with  pecuniary  punishment  should  he, de- 
mean himself  by  such  a  marriage  as  tliat  he 
had  proposed  to  himself,  had  declared  that  ho 
would  oft'er  his  hand  to  Miss  Crawley  on  tlie 
next  morning.  ,  .  This,  however,  he  had  not 
done.  He  had  not  done  it,  partly  because  ho 
did  ■  not  quite  believe  his  father's  threat,  and 
partly  because  he  felt  that  that  threat  was  almost 
justified — for  the  present  moment— by  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  Grace  Crawley's  father  had 
placed  himself.  Henry  Grantly  acknowledged, 
as  he  drove  himself  home  on  the  morning  after 
his  dinner  at  the  rectory,  that  in  this  matter  of 
his  marriage  he  did  owe  much  to  his  family. 


32 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Sliould  he  marry  at  all,  he  owed  it  to  them  to 
marry  a  h\dy.  And  Grace  Crawley — so  he  told 
himself — was  a  lady.  And  he  owed  it  to  them 
to  hring  among  them  as  his  wife  a  woman  who 
sliould  not  disgrace  him  or  them  hy  her  educa- 
tion, manners,  or  even  hy  her  personal  appear- 
ance. In  all  these  respects  Grace  Crawley  was, 
in  his  judgment,  quite  as  good  as  they  had  a 
right  to  expect  her  to  ho,  and  in  some  respects  a 
great  deal  superior  to  that  type  of  womanhood 
with  which  they  had  hcen  most  generally  con- 
versant. "  If  every  hody  had  her  due,  my  sis- 
ter isn't  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  her,"  he  said  to 
himself.  It  must  he  acknowledged,  therefore, 
that  he  was  really  in  love  with  Grace  Crawley ; 
and  he  declared  to  himself,  over  and  ovei'  again, 
that  his  family  had  no  right  to  demand  that  he 
should  marry  a  woman  with  money.  The  arch- 
deacon's son  hy  no  means  despised  money. 
How  could  he,  having  come  forth  as  a  bird 
fledged  from  such  a  nest  as  the  rectory  at  Plum- 
stead  Episcopi?  Before  he  had  been  brought 
by  his  better  nature  and  true  judgment  to  see 
that  Grace  Crawley  was  the  greater  woman  of 
the  two,  he  had  nearly  submitted  himself  to  the 
twenty  thousand  pounds  of  Miss  Emily  Dunsta- 
ble— to  that,  and  her  good  humor  and  rosy 
freshness  combined.  But  he  regarded  himself 
as  the  well-to-do  son  of  a  very  rich  father.  His 
only  child  was  amply  provided  for ;  and  he  felt 
that,  as  regarded  money,  he  had  a  right  to  do  as 
he  pleased.  He  felt  this  with  double  strength 
after  his  father's  threat. 

But  he  had  no  right  to  make  a  marriage  hy 
which  his  family  would  be  disgraced.  Wheth- 
er he  was  right  or  wrong  in  supposing  that  he 
would  disgrace  his  family  were  he  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  a  convicted  thief,  it  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  discuss  here.  He  told  himself  that  it 
would  be  so — telling  himself  also  that,  by  the  stern 
laws  of  the  world,  the  son  and  the  daughter 


must  pay  for  the  oflense  of  the  father  and  the 
mother.  Even  among  the  ])Oor,  who  woidd 
w^illingly  marry  the  child  of  a  man  who  had 
been  hanged  ?  But  he  carried  the  argument  be- 
yond this,  thinking  much  of  the  matter,  and 
endeavoring  to  think  of  it  not  only  justly  but 
generously.  If  the  accusation  against  Cra^vley 
were  false — if  the  man  were  being  injured  by 
an  unjust  charge— even  if  he,  Grantl}',  could 
make  himself  think  that  the  girl's  father  had 
not  stolen  the  money,  then  he  would  dare  every 
thing  and  go  on.  I  do  not  know  that  his  ar- 
gument was  good,  or  that  his  mind  was  logical 
in  the  matter.  He  ought  to  have  felt  that  his 
own  judgment  as  to  the  man's  guilt  was  less 
likely  to  be  correct  than  that  of  those  whose 
duty  it  was  and  would  be  to  form  and  to  express 
a  judgment  on  the  matter ;  and  as  to  Grace 
herself,  she  was  equally  innocent  whether  her 
father  were  guilty  or  not  guilty.  If  he  were  to 
be  debarred  from  asking  her  for  lier  hand  by 
his  feelings  for  her  father  and  mother,  he  should 
hardly  have  trusted  to  his  own  skill  in  ascer- 
taining the  real  truth  as  to  the  alleged  theft. 
But  he  was  not  logical,  and  thus,  meaning  to 
be  generous,  he  became  unjust. 

He  found  that  among  those  in  Silverbndge 
whom  he  presumed  to  be  best  informed  on  such 
matters  there  was  a  growing  opinion  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  stolen  the  money.  He  was  inti- 
mate with  all  the  Walkers,  and  was  able  to  find 
out  that  ^Irs.  Walker  knew  that  her  husband 
believed  in  the  clergyman's  guilt.  He  was  by 
no  means  alone  in  his  willingness  to  accept  Mr. 
Walker's  opinion  as  the  true  opinion.  Silver- 
bridge,  generally,  was  endeavoring  to  dress  it- 
self in  Mr.  Walker's  glass,  and  to  believe  as  Mr. 
Walker  believed.  The  ladies  of  Silverbridge, 
including  the  MissPrettymans,  were  aware  that 
Mr.  Walker  had  been  very  kind  both  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Crawley,  and  argued  from  this  that 
Jlr.  Walker  must  think  the  man  to  he  innocent.' 
But  Henry  Grantly,  who  did  not  dare  to  ask  a 
direct  question  of  the  solicitor,  went  cunningly 
to  work  and  closoted  himself  with  Mrs.  Walker 
— with  Mrs.  Walker,  who  knew  well  of  the  good 
fortune  which  was  hovering  over  Grace's  head 
and  was  so  nearly  settling  itself  upon  her  shouU 
ders.  She  would  have  given  a  finger  to  be  able 
to  whitewash  Mr.  Crawley  in  the  major's  esti- 
mation. Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  she 
told  the  major  in  plain  words  that  her  husband 
had  convinced  himself  of  the  man's  guilt.  In 
plain  words  no  question  was  asked  between 
them,  and  in  plain  woi'ds  no  opinion  was  ex- 
pressed. But  there  was  the  look  of  sorrow  in  the 
woman's  eye  ;  there  was  the  absence  of  reference 
to  her  husband's  assurance  that  the  man  was 
innocent ;  there  was  the  air  of  settled  grief  which 
told  of  her  own  conviction :  and  the  major  left 
her  convinced  that  Mrs.  Walker  believed  Mr. 
Crawley  to  be  guilty. 

Then  he  went  to  Barchester;  not  open- 
mouthed  with  inquiry,  but  rather  with  open 
ears,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  men  in  Bar- 
chester were  of  one  mind.     There  was  a  conn- 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


33 


tv-chib  in  Barcliester,  and  at  tliis  connty-club 
nine  men  out  of  cveiy  ten  were  talking  about 
Mr.  Crawley.  It  was  by  no  means  necessary 
that  a  man  should  ask  questions  on  the  subject. 
Opinion  was  expi-esscd  so  freely  that  no  sueh 
asking  was  required  ;  and  opinion  in  Barchcster 
— at  any  rate  in  the  county-club — seemed  now 
to  be  all  of  one  mind.  There  had  been  every 
disposition  at  first  to  believe  Mr.  Crawley  to  be 
innocent.  He  had  been  believed  to  be  inno- 
cent even  after  he  had  said  wrongly  that  the 
check  had  been  paid  to  him  by  Mr.  Soamcs; 
but  he  had  since  stated  that  he  had  received  it 
from  Dean  Arabin,  and  that  statement  was  also 
shown  to  be  false.  A  man  who  has  a  check 
changed  on  his  own  behalf  is  bound  at  least  to 
show  where  he  got  the  cheek.  Mr.  Crawley 
had  not  only  failed  to  do  this,  but  had  given 
two  false  excuses.  Henry  Grantly,  as  he  drove 
home  to  Silvcrbridge  on  the  Sunday  afternoon, 
summed  up  all  the  evidence  in  his  own  mind,  ^ 
and  brought  in  a  verdict  of  Guilty  against  the 
father  of  the  girl  whom  he  loved. 

On  the  following  morning  he  walked  into 
Silvcrbridge  and  called  at  Miss  Prettyman's 
house.  As  he  went  along  his  heart  was  warm- 
er toward  Grace  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 
He  had  told  himself  that  he  was  now  bound  to 
abstain,  for  his  father's  sake,  from  doing  that 
which  he  liad  told  his  father  that  he  would  cer- 
tainly do.  But  he  knew  also  that  he  had  said 
that  which,  though  it  did  not  bind  him  to  Miss 
Crawley,  gave  lier  a  right  to  expect  that  he 
Avould  so  bind  himself.  And  Miss  Prettyman 
could  not  but  be  aware  of  what  his  intention  had 
been,  and  could  not  but  expect  that  he  should 
now  be  explicit.  Had  he  been  a  wise  man  al- 
together he  would  probably  have  abstained  from 
saying  anj'  thing  at  tlie  present  moment — a 
wise  man,  that  is,  in  the  ways  and  feelings  of 
the  world  in  such  matters.  But,  as  tliere  are 
men  who  will  allow  themselves  all  imaginable 
latitude  in  their  treatment  of  women,  believing 
that  the  world  will  condone  any  amount  of  fiiult 
of  that  nature,  so  are  there  other  men,  and  a 
class  of  men  wliich  on  the  whole  is  the  more 
numerous  of  the  two,  who  are  tremblingly  alive 
to  the  danger  of  censure  on  this  head — and  to 
the  daTiger  of  censure  not  only  from  others,  but 
from  tlieraselves  also.  Major  Grantly  had  done 
that  which  made  him  think  it  imperative  upon 
him  to  do  something  further,  and  to  do  that 
something  at  once. 

Therefore  he  started  off  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing after  breakfast  and  walked  to  Silvcrbridge, 
and  as  he  walked  he  built  various  castles  in  the 
air.  Why  should  he  not  marry  Grace — if  she 
would  have  him — and  take  her  away  beyond 
the  reach  of  her  father's  calamity  ?  Why  should 
he  not  throw  over  his  own  people  altogether, 
money,  position,  society,  and  all,  and  give  him- 
self up  to  love?  Were  he  to  do  so,  men  might 
say  that  he  was  foolish,  but  no  one  could  hint 
that  he  was  dishonorable.  His  spirit  was  high 
enough  to  teach  him  to  think  that  such  conduct 
on  his  part  would  have  iu  it  something  of  mag- 


nificence ;  but  yet  such  was  not  his  purpose. 
In  going  to  Miss  Prettyman  it  was  his  intention 
to  apologize  for  not  doing  this  magnificent  tiling. 
His  mind  was  quite  made  up.  Nevertheless  he 
built  those  castles  in  the  air. 

It  so  happened  that  he  encountered  the  youn- 
ger Miss  Prettyman  in  the  hall.  It  would  not 
at  all  have  suited  him  to  reveal  to  her  tlie  pur- 
port of  his  visit,  or  ask  her  either  to  assist  his 
suit  or  to  receive  his  apologies.  Miss  Anne 
Prettyman  was  too  common  a  jiersonage  in  the 
Silverbridge  world  to  be  fit  for  such  employ- 
ment. Miss  Anne  Prettyman  was,  indeed,  her- 
self submissive  to  him,  and  treated  him  with  the 
courtesy  which  is  due  to  a  superior  being.  He 
therefore  simply  asked  her  whether  he  could  be 
allowed  to  see  her  sister. 

"Surely,  Major  Grantly  —  that  is,  I  think 
so.  It  is  a  little  early,  but  I  think  she  can  re- 
ceive you." 

"It  is  early,  I  know;  but  as  I  want  to  say 
a  word  or  two  on  business — " 

"Oh,  on  business.  I  am  sure  she  will  see 
3'ou  on  business ;  she  will  only  be  too  proiid. 
If  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  step  in  here  for 
two  minutes."  Then  Miss  Anne,  having  de- 
posited the  major  iu  the  little  parlor,  ran  up 
stairs  with  her  message  to  her  sister.  "Of 
course  it's  about  Grace  Crawley,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  went.  "It  can't  be  about  any 
thing  else.  I  wonder  what  it  is  he's  going  to 
say.  If  he's  going  to  pop,  and  the  father  in  all 
this  trouble,  he's  the  finest  fellow  that  ever  trod. " 
Such  were  her  thoughts  as  she  tapped  at  tiie 
door  and  announced  in  the  presence  of  Grace 
that  there  was  somebody  in  the  hall. 

"It's  Major  Grantly,"  whispered  Anne,  as 
soon  as  Grace  had  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

"  So  I  sujjposed  by  your  telling  her  not  to  go 
into  the  hall.     What  has  he  come  to  say  ?" 

"How  on  earth  can  I  tell  you  that,  Anna- 
bclla?  But  I  suppose  he  can  have  only  one 
thing  to  say  after  all  that  has  come  and  gone. 
He  can  only  have  come  with  one  object." 

"  He  wouldn't  have  come  to  me  for  that.  He 
would  have  asked  to  see  herself." 

"But  she  never  goes  out  now,  and  he  can't 
see  her." 

"Or  he  would  have  gone  to  them  over  at 
Ilogglestock,"  said  Miss  Prettyman.  "  But  of 
course  he  must  come  up  now  he  is  here.  Would 
you  mind  telling  him  ?  or  sliall  I  ring  the  bell  ?" 

"I'll  tell  him.  We  need  not  make  more 
fuss  than  necessary,  with  the  servants,  you  know. 
I  suppose  I'd  better  not  come  back  with  him?" 

There  was  a  tone  of  supplication  in  the  youn- 
ger sister's  voice  as  she  made  the  last  suggestion 
which  ought  to  have  melted  the  heart  of  the  eld- 
er ;  but  it  was  unavailing.  "As  he  has  asked 
to  see  me,  I  think  you  had  better  not,"  said 
Annabella.  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  bore  her 
cross  meekly,  offered  no  argument  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  returning  to  the  little  parlor  where 
she  had  left  the  major,  brought  him  up  stairs 
and  ushered  lum  into  her  sister's  room  without 
even  entering  it  again  herself. 


34 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Major  Grantly  was  as  intimately  afquaiiitt'd 
witli  ^liss  Anno  I'rettynian  as  a  man  unilcr  lliir- 
ty  may  well  lie  with  a  lady  nearer  fifty  than  for- 
ty, who  is  not  sjiecially  connceted  with  him  l)y 
nny  family  tie  ;  but  of  Miss  Prcttynian  he  knew 
personally  very  much  less.  Miss  Prettyman, 
as  has  before  i)een  said,  did  not  go  out,  and 
was  therefore  not  common  to  the  eyes  of  the 
8ilverl)ridi;ians.  She  did  occasionally  sec  her 
friends  in  her  own  house,  and  Grace  Crawley's 
lover,  as  the  major  had  come  to  be  called,  had 
been  there  on  more  than  one  occasion  ;  but  of 
real  personal  intimacy  between  them  tlierc  had 
hitherto  existed  none.  He  mi^^ht  have  spok- 
en, iierhajis,  a  dozen  words  to  her  in  his  life. 
He  had  ii<iw  more  tlian  a  doxen  to  sjicak 
to  her,  but  he  hardly  knew  how  to  commence 
them. 

She  had  f;ot  up  and  conrtcsied,  and  had  then 
taken  his  hand  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 
"  My  sister  tells  me  th;it  you  want  to  sec  mc," 
she  said,  in  her  softest,  mildest  voice. 

"I  do,  Miss  Prettyman.  I  want  to  S])cak  to 
you  about  a  matter  tliat  troubles  me  veiy  much 
— very  much  indeed." 

"  Any  thing  that  I  can  do,  Major  Grantly — " 

"  Thank  you,  yes.  I  know  that  you  are  very 
good,  or  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  come  to 
you.  Indeed  I  shouldn't  trouble  you  now,  of 
course,  if  it  was  onlj'  about  myself.  I  know 
very  well  what  a  great  friend  you  are  to  Miss 
Crawley." 

"Yes,  I  am.  Wc  love  Grace  dearly  here." 
;  "So  do  I,"  said  the  major,  bluntly  ;  "  I  love 
her  dearly,  too."  Then  he  paused,  as  though 
he  thought  that  Miss  Prettyman  ought  to  take 
up  the  si)ecch.  But  Miss  I'rettyman  seemed 
to  think  differently,  and  lie  was.  obliged  to  go 
on.  "I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever 
lieard  about  it,  or  noticed  it,  or — or — or — " 
He  felt  that  he  was  very  awkward,  and  he  blush- 
ed. Major  as  he  was,  he  bluslicd  as  he  sat  be- 
fore the  old  woman,  trying  to  tell  his  story,  but 
not  knowing  how  to  tell  it.  "The  truth  is, 
Miss  Prettyman,  I  have  done  all  but  ask  her  to 
be  my  wife,  and  now  has  come  this  terrible  af- 
fair about  her  father." 

"It  is  a  terrible  affair,  Major  Grantly;  very 
terrible." 

"  By  Jove,  you  may  say  that!" 

"  Of  course  Mv.  Crawley  is  as  innocent  in 
the  matter  as  you  or  I  are." 

"You  think  so.  Miss  Prettyman?" 

"Think  so !  I  feel  quite  sure  of  it.  What ! 
a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  a  pi- 
ous, hard-working  country  clergyman,  whom  we 
have  known  among  us  by  his  good  works  for 
years,  suddenly  turn  thief,  and  pilfer  a  few 
pounds !  It  is  not  possible.  Major  Grantly. 
And  the  father  of  such  a  daughter,  too!  It  is 
not  i)ossible.  It  may  do  for  men  of  business  to 
think  so,  lawyers  and  such  like,  who  are  obliged 
to  think  in  accordance  with  the  evidence,  as  they 
call  it ;  but  to  my  mind  the  idea  is  monstrous. 
I. don't  know  how  he  got  it,  and  I  don't  care ; 
but  I'm  quite  sure  he  did  not  steal  it.     Wlio- 


ever  heard  of  any  body  becoming  so  base  as  that 
all  at  once  ?" 

The  major  was  startled  by  her  eloquence,  and 
by  the  indignant  tone  of  voice  in  which  it  was 
exj)rcsscd.  It  seemed  to  tell  him  that  she 
would  give  him  no  sympathy  in  that  which  he 
liad  come  to  say  to  her,  and  to  ujjbraid  him  al- 
ready in  that  he  was  not  jirejiared  to  do  the  mag- 
nificent thing  of  which  he  had  thought  when  he 
had  been  building  his  castles  in  the  air.  Why 
should  he  not  do  the  magnificent  thing?  Miss 
PrcttymaTi's  eloquence  was  so  strong  that  it  half 
convinced  him  that  the  Barchestcr  Club  and 
Mr.  Walker  had  come  to  a  wrong  conclusion 
after  all. 

"And  how  docs  Miss  Crawley  bear  it?"  he 
asked,  desirous  of  ])ostj)oning  for  a  while  any 
declaration  of  his  own  purpose. 

"  She  is  very  unhaj)py,  of  course.  Not  that 
she  thinks  evil  of  her  father." 

"Of  course  slie  does  not  tliink  him  guilty." 

"Nobody  thinks  him  so  in  tliis  jiouse.  Major 
Grantly,"  said  the  little  woman,  very  ini])erious- 
ly.  "But  Grace  is,  naturally  enougli,  very  sad 
— very  sad  indeed.  I  do  not  think  I  can  ask 
you  to  see  her  to-day." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  it,"  said  the  major. 

"  Poor,  dear  girl !  it  is  a  great  trial  for  her. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  give  her  any  message.  Ma- 
jor Grantly  ?" 

Tiie  moment  had  now  come  in  which  he 
must  say  that  which  he  had  come  to  say.  Tho 
little  woman  waited  for  an  answer,  and  as  he 
was  there,  within  her  power  as  it  were,  lie  must 
speak.  I  fear  that  what  he  said  will  not  be  ap- 
proved by  any  strong-minded  reader.  I  fear 
tliat  our  lover  will  henceforth  be  considered  by 
such  a  one  as  being  but  a  weak,  wishy-washy 
man,  who  had  hardly  any  mind  of  his  own  to 
speak  of — that  he  was  a  man  of  no  account,  as 
the  ])oor  people  say.  "Miss  Prettyman,  what 
message  ought  I  to  send  to  her?"  he  said. 

"Nay,  Major  Grantly,  how  can  I  tell  you 
that  ?  How  can  I  put  words  into  your  mouth  ?'' 
■  "It  isn't  the  words,"  he  said  ;  "  but  the  feel- 
ings." 

"And  how  can  I  tell  the  feelings  of  your 
heart?" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  I  know  what  my  feelings 
are.  I  do  love  her  with  all  my  heart- — I  do, 
indeed.  A  fortnight  ago  I  was  only  tliinking 
whether  she  would  accept  me  when  I  asked  her 
— wondering  whether  I  was  too  old  for  her,  and 
whether  she  would  mind  having  Edith  to  take 
care  of." 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  Edith — very  fond  in- 
deed." 

"  Is  she  ?"  said  the  major,  more  distracted 
than  ever.  Why  should  he  not  do  the  magnifi- 
cent thing  after  all?  "But  it  is  a  great  charge 
for  a  young  girl  when  she  marries." 

"It  is  a  great  charge — a  very  great  charge. 
It  is  for  you  to  think  whether  you  should  intrust 
so  great  a  charge  to  one  so  young." 

"  I  have  no  fear  about  that  at  all." 

"Nor  should  I  have  any — as  you  ask  me. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


We  have  known  Grace  well,  thoroughly,  and 
are  quite  sure  that  she  will  do  her  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  may  jjlease  God  to  call 
her." 

Tlic  major  was  aware  when  this  was  said  to 
him  that  he  had  not  come  to  Miss  Trettyman 
for  a  character  of  the  girl  he  loved  ;  and  yet  he 
was  not  angry  at -receiving  it.  He  was  neither 
angry,  nor  even  inditFerent.  He  accepted  the 
character  almost  gratefully,  though  he  felt  that 
he  was  being  led  away  from  his  purpose.  He 
consoled  himself  for  this,  however,  by  remem- 
bering that  the  path  by  which  Miss  Trettyman 
was  now  leading  him  led  to  the  magnificent, 
and  to  those  pleasant  castles  in  the  air  which 
he  had  been  building  as  he  walked  into  Silver- 
bridge.  "I  am  quite  sure  that  she  is  all  that 
you  say,"  he  replied.  "Indeed  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  about  that  long  ago." 

"And  wluit  can  I  do  for  you,  Major  Grantly  ?" 
"You  tliink  I  ought  not  to  see  her?" 
"I  will  ask  herself,  if  you  please.  I  have 
such  trust  in  her  judgment  that  I  should  leave 
her  altogether  to  her  own  discretion." 
'  The  magnificent  tiling  must  be  done,  and  the 
major  made  up  his  mind  accordingly.  Some- 
thing of  regret  came  over  his  spirit  as  he  thought 
of  a  father-in-law  disgraced  and  degraded,  and 
of  his  own  father  broken-hearted.  But  now 
there  was  hardly  an  alternative  left  to  him. 
And  was  it  not  the  manly  thing  for  him  to  do? 
He  had  loved  the  girl  before  this  trouble  had 
come  upon  her,  and  w-as  he  not  bound  to  accept 
the  burden  which  his  love  had  brought  with  it? 
"I  will  see  her,"  he  said,  "at  once,  if  you  will/ 
let  me,  and  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  But  I  mus/ 
see  her  alone." 

Then  Miss  Prcttyman  paused.  Hitherto  she 
had  undoubtedly  been  playing  her  fish  cautious- 
ly, or  rather  her  young  friend's  fish — perhaps  I 
may  say  cunningly.  She  had  descended  to  art- 
ifice on  behalf  of  the  girl  whom  she  loved,  ad- 
mired, and  pitied.  Slie  had  seen  some  way  into 
the  man's  mind,  and  had  been  partly  aware  of 
his  purpose — of  his  infirmity  of  purpose,  of  his 
double  purpose.  She  had  perceived  that  a  word 
from  her  might  help  Grace's  chance,  and  had 
led  the  man  on  till  he  had  committed  himself, 
at  any  rate  to  her.  In  doing  this  she  had  been 
actuated  by  friendship  rather  tlian  by  abstract 
principle.  But  now,  when  the  moment  had 
come  in  which  she  must  decide  upon  some  ac- 
tion, she  paused.  Was  it  right,  for  the  sake  of 
either  of  them,  that  an  offer  of  marriage  should 
be  made  at  such  a  moment  as  this?  It  might 
be  very  well,  in  regard  to  some  future  time,  that 
the  major  should  have  so  committed  himself. 
She  saw  something  of  the  man's  spirit,  and  be- 
lieved that,  having  gone  so  far — having  so  far 
told  his  love,  he  would  return  to  his  love  here- 
after, let  the  result  of  the  Crawley  trial  be  what 
it  might.  But — but  this  could  be  no  proper 
time  for  love-m:d<.ing.  Though  Grace  loved  the 
man,  as  Miss  Prcttyman  knew  well — though 
Grace  loved  the  child,  having  allowed  herself  so 
long  to  call  it  her  own — though  such  a  marriage 


would  be  the  making  of  Grace's  fortune  as  those 
who  loved  her  could  hardly  have  liojjed  that  it 
should  ever  have  been  made,  she  would  certain- 
ly refuse  the  man  if  he  were  to  jn-opose  to  her 
now.  She  would  refuse  him,  and  then  the  man 
would  be  free — free  to  change  his  mind  if  he 
thought  fit.  Considering  all  these  things  craft- 
ily in  the  exercise  of, her  friendship,  too  cun- 
ningly, I  fear,  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  a  high 
morality,  she  resolved  that  tlie  major  had  better 
not  see  Miss  Crawley  at  the  present  moment. 
]\Iiss  Prettyman  paused  before  she  replied,  and, 
when  she  did  speak,  Major  Grantly  had  risen 
from  his  chair  and  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  fire.  "Major  Grantly,"  she  said,  "you. 
shall  see  her  if  you  please,  and  if  she  pleases ; 
but  I  doubt  whether  her  answer  at  such  a  mo- 
ment as  this  would  be  that  which  you  would 
wish  to  receive." 

"You  think  she  M'oidd  refuse  me." 

"I  do  not  think  that  she  would  accept  you 
now.  She  would  feel— I  am  sure  she  would 
feel,  that  these  hours  of  her  father's  sorrow  are 
not  hours  in  which  love  should  be  either  offered 
or.  accepted.  You  shall,  however,  see  her  if 
you  please." 

The  major  allowed  himself  a  moment  for 
thought ;  and  as  he  thought  he  sighed.  Grace 
Crawley  became  more  beautiful  in  his  eyes  than 
ever,  was  endowed  by  these  words  from  Miss 
Prettyman  with  new  charms  and  brigliter  vir- 
tues than  he  had  seen  before.  Let  come  what 
might  he  would  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  on  some 
future  day  if  he  did  not  so  ask  her  now.  For 
the  present,  perhaps,  he  had  better  be  guided 
by  Aliss  Prettyman.  *'  Then  I  will  Hot  see  her," 
he  said. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  the  wiser  course." 

"Of  course  you  knew  before  this  that  I — 
loved  her?" 

"  I  tluuight  so,  Jlajor  Grantly." 

"  And  that  I  intended  to  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife?" 

"  Well ;  since  you  put  the  question  to  me  so 
plainly,  I  must  confess  that  as  Grace's  friend  I 
should  not  quite  have  let  things  go  on  as  they 
have  gone — though  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to 
interfere  with  any  girl  whom  I  believe  to  be 
pure  and  good  as  I  know  her  to  be — but  still  I 
should  hardly  have  been  justified  in  letting 
things  go  as  they  have  gone  if  I  had  not  be- 
lieved tliat  such  was  your  purj)ose." 

"I  wanted  to  set  myself  right  with  you,  Miss 
Prettyman." 

"You  are  right  with  me — quite  right;"  and 
she  got  up  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "  You  are 
a  fine,  noble-hearted  gentleman,  and  I  iiope  that 
our  Grace  may  live  to  be  your  hap]iy  wife,  and 
the  mother  of  your  darling  child,  and  the  mo- 
ther of  other  children.  I  do  not  see  how  a  wo- 
man could  have  a  happier  lot  in  life." 

"  And  will  you  give  Grace  my  love  ?" 

"I  will  tell  her  at  any  rate  that  you  have 
been  here,  and  that  you  have  inquired  after  lier 
with  the  greatest  kindness.  She  will  under- 
stand what  that  means  without  any  word  of  love." 


36 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"Can  I  do  any  tluiifj  for  her — or  for  her  fa- 
ther; I  moan  in  the  way  of — money?  I  don't 
mind  mentioninf;  it  to  you,  Miss  I'rcttyinan." 

"  I  will  tell  her  that  you  are  ready  to  do  it,  if 
any  tiiiny  can  be  done.  For  myself  I  feel  no 
douht  that  the  mystery  will  be  cleared  nj)  at 
hist;  and  then,  if  yoii  will  come  iiere,  \vc  shall 
be  so  glad  to  see  you.     I  shall,  at  least." 

Then  the  m.ijor  went,  and  Miss  I'rcttyman 
lierself  actually  descended  with  him  into  the 
hall,  and  bade  him  farewell  most  alYectionately 
before  her  sister  and  two  of  the  maids  who 
came  out  to  open  the  door.  Miss  Anne  I'retty- 
nian,  wlicn  she  saw  the  great  friendship  with 
which  tlic  major  was  dismissed,  could  not  con- 
tain herself,  hut  asked  most  impudent  ques- 
tions, in  a  whisjier  indeed,  but  in  such  a  whis- 
per that  any  sharii-earcd  maid-servant  could 
hear  and  understand  tliem.  "Is  it  settled?" 
slie  asked  wlien  her  sister  had  ascended  only 
the  first  fli};ht  of  stairs;  "has  he  popped?" 
The  look  with  which  the  elder  sister  ])unished 
and  dismayed  the  younger  I  would  not  have 
borne  for  twenty  pounds.  She  simjily  looked, 
and  said  nothing,  but  j)assed  on.  Wlien  she 
had  regained  her  room  she  rang  the  bell,  and 
desired  the  servant  to  ask  Miss  Crawley  to  be 
good  enough  to  step  to  her.  Poor  Miss  Anne 
retired  discomforted  into  the  solitude  of  one  of 
the  lower  rooms,  and  sat  for  some  minutes  all 
alone,  recovering  from  the  shock  of  her  sister's 
anger.  "At  any  rate,  he  hasn't  popped,"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  made  her  way  back  to  the 
school. 

After  that  Miss  Prettyman  and  Miss  Crawley 
were  closeted  together  for  about  an  hour.  AVhat 
passed  between  them  need  not  be  repeated  here 
word  for  word  ;  but  it  may  be  understood  tliat 
Miss  Prettyman  said  no  more  than  she  ought  to 
have  said,  and  that  Grace  understood  all  that 
she  ought  to  have  understood. 

"No  man  ever  behaved  with  more  consider- 
ate friendship,  or  more  like  a  gentleman,"  said 
Miss  Prettyman. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  very  good,  and  I  am  so  glad 
he  did  not  ask  to  see  me,"  said  Grace.  Then 
Grace  went  away,  and  Miss  Prettyman  sat  a 
while  in  thought,  considering  what  she  had 
done,  not  without  some  stings  of  conscience. 

Major  Grantly,  as  he  walked  home,  was  not 
altogether  satisfied  with  himself,  though  he  gave 
himself  credit  for  some  diplomacy  which  I  do 
not  think  he  deserved.  lie  felt  that  Miss  Pret- 
tyman and  the  world  in  general,  should  the 
world  in  general  ever  hear  any  tiling  about  it, 
would  give  him  credit  for  having  behaved  well ; 
and  that  he  had  obtained  this  credit  without 
committing  himself  to  the  necessity  of  marry- 
ing the  daughter  of  a  thief,  should  things  turn 
out  badly  in  regard  to  the  father.  But — and 
this  but  robbed  him  of  all  the  pleasure  which 
comes  from  real  success — but  he  had  not  treat- 
ed Grace  Crawley  with  the  perfect  generosity 
which  love  owes,  and  he  was  in  some  degree 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  felt,  however,  that  he 
might  probably  have  Grace,  should  ho  choose 


to  ask  for  her  when  this  trouble  should  have 
l)assed  by.  "And  I  will,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  entered  the  gate  of  his  own  ])addock,  and 
saw  his  child  in  her  perambulator  before  the 
nurse.  "And  I  will  ask  her,  sooner  or  later, 
let  things  go  as  they  may."  Then  he  took  the 
perambulator  muler  his  own  charge  for  half  an 
hour,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  nurse,  of  the 
child,  and  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

MK.   CRAWLEY    IS    T.VKKN   TO    SILVERBRIDGE. 

It  had  become  necessary  on  the  Monday 
morning  that  Mrs.  Crawley  should  obtain  from 
her  husband  an  undertaking  that  he  would  pre- 
sent himself  before  the  magistrates  at  Silver- 
bridge  on  the  Thursday.  She  had  been  made 
to  understand  that  the  magistrates  were  sinning 
against  the  strict  rule  of  the  law  in  not  issuing 
a  warrant  at  once  for  Mr.  Crawley's  apprehen- 
sion ;  and  that  they  were  so  sinning  at  the  in- 
stance of  Mr.  Walker — at  whose  instance  they 
would  have  committed  almost  any  sin  practica- 
ble by  a  board  of  English  magistrates,  so  great 
was  their  faith  in  him ;  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  bound  to  answer  her  engagement.  She  had 
also  another  task  to  perform — that,  namely,  of 
persuading  him  to  employ  an  attorney  for  his 
defense ;  and  she  was  prepared  with  the  name 
of  an  attorney,  one  Mr.  Mason,  also  of  Silver- 
bridge,  who  had  been  recommended  to  her  by 
]Mr.  Walker.  But  when  she  came  to  the  per- 
formance of  these  two  tasks  on  the  Monday 
morning  she  found  that  she  was  unable  to  ac- 
eom])lish  either  of  them.  Mr.  Crawley  first  de- 
clared that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
any  attorney.  As  to  that  he  seemed  to  have 
made  nj)  his  mind  beforchanil,  and  she  saw  at 
once  that  she  had  no  hope  of  shaking  him.  But 
when  she  found  that  he  was  equally  obstinate  in 
the  other  matter,  and  that  he  declared  that  he 
would  not  go  before  the  magistrates  unless  he 
were  made  to  do  so — unless  the  policemen  came 
and  fetched  him,  then  she  almost  sank  beneath 
the  burden  of  her  troubles,  and  for  a  while  was 
disposed  to  let  things  go  as  they  would.  How 
could  she  strive  to  bear  a  load  that  was  so  man- 
ifestly too  heavy  for  her  shoulders  ? 

On  the  Sunday  the  poor  man  had  exerted 
himself  to  get  through  his  Sunday  duties,  and 
he  had  succeeded.  He  had  succeeded  so  well 
that  his  wife  had  thought  that  things  might  yet 
come  riglit  with  him,  that  he  would  remember, 
before  it  was  too  late,  the  true  history  of  that 
unha])py  bit  of  paper,  and  that  he  was  rising 
above  that  half  madness  which  for  months  past 
had  afflicted  him.  On  the  Sunday  evening, 
when  he  was  tired  with  his  work,  she  thought 
it  best  to  say  nothing  to  him  about  the  magis- 
trates and  the  business  of  Thm-sday.  But  on 
the  Monday  morning  she  commenced  her  task, 
feeling  that  she  owed  it  to  Mr.  Walker  to  los«  no 
more  time.     He  was  very  decided  in  his  man- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


37 


ners,  and  made  her  understand  that  he  would 
employ  no  lawyer  on  his  own  behalf.  "Why 
should  I  want  a  lawyer  ?  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong,"  he  said.  Then  she  tried  to  make  him 
understand  tliat  many  who  may  have  done  no- 
thing wrong  require  a  lawyer's  aid.  "And  who 
is  to  pay  him  ?"  he  asked.  To  this  she  replied, 
unfortunately,  that  there  would  be  no  need  of 
thinking  of  that  at  once.  "  And  I  am  to  get 
further  into  debt !"  he  said.  "  I  am  to  put  my- 
self right  before  the  world  by  incurring  debts 
which  I  know  I  can  never  pay  ?  When  it  lias 
been  a  question  of  food  for  the  children  I  have 
been  weak,  but  I  will  not  be  weak  in  such  a 
matter  as  this.  I  will  have  no  lawyer."  She 
did  not  regard  this  denial  on  his  part  as  very 
material,  though  she  would  fain  have  followed 
Mr.  Walker's  advice  had  she  been  able;  but 
when,  later  in  the  day,  he  declared  that  the  po- 
lice should  fetch  him,  then  her  spirit  gave  way. 
Early  in  the  morning  he  had  seemed  to  assent 
to  the  expediency  of  going  into  Silverbridge  on 
the  Thursday,  and  it  was  not  till  after  he  had 
worked  himself  into  a  rage  about  the  proposed 
attorney  that  he  utterly  refused  to  make  the 
journey.  During  the  whole  day,  however,  his 
state  was  such  as  almost  to  break  his  wife's 
heart.  He  would  do  nothing.  He  would  not 
go  to  the  school,  nor  even  stir  beyond  the  house- 
door.  He  would  not  open  a  book.  He  would 
not  eat,  nor  would  he  even  sit  at  table  or  say 
the  accustomed  grace  when  the  scanty  mid-day 
meal  was  placed  upon  the  table.  "Nothing  is 
blessed  to  me,"  he  said,  when  his  wife  pressed 
him  to  say  the  words  for  their  child's  sake. 
"  Shall  I  say  that  I  thank  God  when  my  heart 
is  thankless  ?  Shall  I  serve  my  child  by  a  lie  ?" 
Then  for  hours  he  sat  in  the  same  position,  in 
the  old  arm-chair,  hanging  over  the  fire  speech- 
less, sleepless,  thinking  ever,  as  she  well  knew, 
of  the  injustice  of  the  world.  She  hardly  dared 
to  speak  to  him,  so  great  was  the  bitterness  of 
his  words  when  he  was  goaded  to  reply.  At 
last,  late  in  the  evening,  feeling  that  it  would 
be  her  duty  to  send  in  to  Mr.  Walker  early  on 
the  following  morning,  she  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  his  shoulder  and  asked  him  for  his  promise. 
"  I  may  tell  Mr.  Walker  that  you  will  be  there 
on  Thursday?" 

"No,"  he  said,  shouting  at  her.  "No.  I 
will  have  no  such  message  sent."  She  started 
back,  trembling.  Not  that  she  was  accustomed 
to  tremble  at  his  ways,  or  to  show  that  she  feared 
him  in  his  paroxysms,  but  that  his  voice  had 
been  louder  than  she  had  before  known  it.  "I 
will  hold  no  intercourse  with  them  at  Silver- 
bridge  in  this  matter.     Do  you  hear  me,  Mary  ?" 

"I  hear  you,  Josiah ;  but  I  must  keep  my 
word  to  ]\Ir.  Walker.  I  promised  that  I  would 
send  to  him." 

"Tell  him,  then,  that  I  will  not  stir  a  foot 
out  of  this  house  on  Thursday  of  my  own  ac- 
cord. On  Thursday  I  shall  be  here;  and  here 
I  will  remain  all  day — unless  they  take  me 
hence  by  force." 

"But,  Josiah—" 


"  Will  you  obey  me  ?  or  I  shall  walk  into  Sil- 
verbridge myself  and  tell  tlie  man  that  I  will 
not  come  to  him."  Then  he  arose  from  his 
chair  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  his  hat  as 
though  he  were  going  forth  immediately,  on  his 
way  to  Silverbridge.  The  night  was  now  pitch 
dark,  and  the  rain  was  falling,  and  abroad  he 
would  encounter  all  the  severity  of  the  pitiless 
winter.  Still  it  might  have  been  better  that 
he  should  have  gone.  The  exercise  and  the 
fresh  air,  even  the  wet  and  the  mud,  would 
have  served  to  bring  back  his  mind  to  reason. 
But  his  wife  thought  of  the  misery  of  the  jour- 
ney, of  his  scanty  clothing,  of  his  worn  boots, 
of  the  need  there  was  to  preserve  the  raiment 
which  he  wore:  and  she  remembered  that  he 
was  fasting — that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 
the  morning,  and  that  he  was  not  fit  to  be  alone. 
She  stopped  him,  therefore,  before  he  could 
reach  the  door. 

"Your  bidding  shall  be  done,"  she  said,  "of 
course." 

"Tell  them,  then,  that  they  must  seek  me 
here  if  they  want  me." 

"But,  Josiah,  think  of  the  parish — of  the 
people  who  respect  you — for  their  sakes  let  it 
not  be  said  that  you  were  taken  away  by  po- 
licemen." 

"  Was  St.  Paul  not  bound  in  prison  ?  Did 
he  think  of  what  the  people  might  see  ?" 

"  If  it  were  necessary  I  would  encourage  you 
to  bear  it  without  a  murmur." 

"It  is  necessary  whether  you  murmur  or  do 
not  murmur.  Murmur,  indeed !  Wliy  does 
not  your  voice  ascend  to  heaven  with  one  loud 
wail  against  the  cruelty  of  man  ?"  Then  he 
went  forth  from  the  room  into  an  empty  cham- 
ber on  the  other  side  of  the  passage ;  and  his 
wife,  when  she  followed  him  there  after  a  few 
minutes,  found  him  on  his  knees,  with  his  fore- 
head against  the  floor,  and  with  his  hands 
clutching  at  the  scanty  hairs  of  his  head.  Often 
before  had  she  seen  liim  so,  on  the  same  spot, 
half  groveling,  half  prostrate  in  prayer,  reviling 
in  his  agony  all  things  around  him — nay,  nearly 
all  things  above  him — and  yet  striving  to  recon- 
cile himself  to  his  Creator  by  the  humiliation  of 
confession. 

It  might  be  better  with  him  now,  if  only  he 
could  bring  himself  to  some  softness  of  heart. 
Softly  she  closed  the  door,  and  placing  the  can- 
dle on  the  mantle-shelf,  softly  she  knelt  beside 
him,  and  softly  touched  his  hand  with  hers. 
He  did  not  stir  nor  utter  a  word,  but  seemed  to 
clutch  at  his  thin  locks  more  violently  than  be- 
fore. Then  she  kneeling  there,  aloud,  but  with 
low  voice,  with  her  thin  hands  clasped,  uttered 
a  prayer  in  which  she  asked  her  God  to  remove 
from  her  husband  the  bitterness  of  that  hour. 
He  listened  till  she  had  finished,  and  then  he 
rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  "It  is  in  vain,"  said 
he.  "It  is  all  in  vain.  It  is  all  in  vain." 
Then  he  returned  back  to  the  parlor,  and  seat- 
ing himself  again  in  the  arm-chair,  remained 
there  without  speaking  till  past  midnight.  At 
last,  when  she  told  him  that  she  herself  was 


38 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


very  cold,  ami  rcniimled  him  tliat  for  the  last 
hour  tlicre  liad  been  no  fire,  still  speechless,  he 
went  11])  witli  her  to  tlicir  bed. 

Early  on  the  followiiif^  morning  she  contrived 
to  let  iiim  know  tliat  slic  was  about  to  send  a 
neiglibor's  son  over  with  a  note  to  Mr.  Walker, 
fearing  to  urge  him  further  to  change  his  mind, 
but  liojiing  that  he  might  exjircss  his  jmrjjosc  of 
doing  so  when  he  heard  that  tlic  letter  was 
to  be  sent ;  but  he  took  no  notice  whatever  of 
her  words.  At  this  moment  ho  was  reading 
Greek  with  his  daughter,  or  rather  rebuking 
her  because  she  could  not  be  induced  to  read 
Greek. 

"  Oil,  papa,"  the  poor  girl  said,  "  don't  scold 
mc  now.     I  am  so  unhappy  because  of  all  tliis." 

"And  am  not  I  unhappy?"  lie  said,  as  he 
closed  the  book.  "My  God,  what  have  I  done 
against  thco  that  my  lines  should  be  cast  in 
such  terrible  places?" 

The  letter  was  sent  to  Mr.  'Walker.  "He 
knows  himself  to  be  innocent,"  said  the  poor 
wife,  writing  what  best  excuse  she  knew  how  to 
make,  "  and  thinks  that  he  should  take  no  step 
liimself  in  such  a  matter.  He  will  not  cmjjloy 
a  lawyer,  and  he  says  that  ho  should  prefer  tliat 
he  should  be  sent  for  if  the  law  requires  his 
presence  at  Silverbridge  on  Thursday."  All 
tliis  slic  wrote  as  though  slie  felt  tliat  she  ought 
to  employ  a  high  tone  in  defending  her  hus- 
band's purpose ;  but  she  broke  down  altogether 
in  the  few  words  of  the  postscript.  "Indeed, 
indeed,  I  have  done  what  I  could  !"  Mr.  Walk- 
er understood  it  all,  both  the  high  tone  and  the 
subsequent  fiill. 

On  the  Thursday  morning,  at  about  ten 
o'clock,  a  fly  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  Hoggle- 
stock  Parsonage,  and  out  of  it  tliere  came  too 
men.  One  was  dressed  in  ordinary  black  clothes, 
and  seemed  from  his  bearing  to  be  a  respecta- 
ble man  of  the  middle  class  of  life.  He  w"as, 
however,  the  superintendent  of  police  for  the 
Silverbridge  district.  The  other  man  was  a 
jwlioenian,  ]nirc  and  simple,  with  the  helmet- 
liKiking  hat  which  has  lately  become  common, 
and  all  tlie  ordinary  half-military  and  wholly 
disagreeable  outward  adjuncts  of  the  profession. 
"Wilkins,"  said  the  superintendent,  "likely 
enough  I  shall  want  you,  for  they  tell  me  the 
gent  is  uncommon  strange.  But  if  I  don't  call 
you  when  I  come  out,  just  open  the  door  like  a 
servant,  and  mount  up  on  the  box  when  we're 
in.  And  don't  speak  nor  say  nothing."  Then 
the  senior  policeman  entered  the  house. 

He  found  Mrs.  Crawley  sitting  in  the  parlor 
with  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on,  and  Mr.  Crawley 
in  the  arm-chair,  leaning  over  the  fire.  "  I 
suppose  we  had  better  go  with  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley  directly  the  door  was  opened ;  for  of 
course  she  had  seen  the  arrival  of  the  fly  from 
the  window. 

"  The  gentleman  had  better  come  with  ns  if 
he'll  be  so  kind,"  said  Thompson.  "I've 
brought  a  close  carriage  for  him." 

"But  I  may  go  with  him?"  said  the  wife, 
with  frightened  voice.      "I  may  accompany  my 


husband.     He  is  not  well,  Sir,  and  wants  assist- 
ance." 

Thompson  thought  about  it  for  a  moment  be- 
fore he  spoke.  There  was  room  in  the  fly  for 
only  two,  or  if  for  three,  still  lie  knew  his  place 
better  than  to  thrust  liimself  inside  together  with 
his  i)risoner  and  his  jirisoner's  wife,  lie  had 
been  specially  asked  by  Mr.  Walker  to  be  very 
civil.  Only  one  could  sit  on  the  box  with  the 
driver,  and  if  the  request  was  conceded,  the 
])Oor  policeman  must  walk  back.  The  walk, 
however,  would  not  kill  the  i)oliccman.  "All 
right,  ma'am,"  said  Thom})son  ;  "  that  is,  if  the 
gentleman  will  just  pass  his  word  not  to  get  out 
till  I  ask  him." 

"He  will  not!  He  will  not!"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"  I  will  pass  my  word  for  nothing,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley. 

U])on  hearing  this  Thompson  assumed  a 
very  long  face,  and  shook  his  head  as  he  turned 
his  eyes  first  toward  the  husband  and  then  to- 
ward the  wife,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
compressing  his  lips,  blew  out  his  breath,  as 
though  in  this  way  he  might  blow  off  some  of 
the  mingled  sorrow  and  indignation  with  which 
the  gentleman's  words  afflicted  him. 

Jlrs.  Crawley  rose  and  came  close  to  him. 
"You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  he  will  not 
stir.  You  may  indeed.  He  thinks  it  incum- 
bent on  him  not  to  give  any  undertaking  him- 
self, because  he  feels  himself  to  be  so.  harshly 
used." 

"  I  don't  know  about  harshness,"  said  Thomp- 
son, brindling  up.  "A  close  carriage  brought, 
and — " 

"I  will  walk.  If  I  am  made  to  go  I  will 
walk,"  shouted  Mr.  Crawley. 

"I  did  not  allude  to  you — or  to  Mr.  Walk- 
er," said  the  poor  wife.  "I  know  you  have 
been  most  kind.  I  meant  the  harshness  of  the 
circumstances.  Of  course  he  is  innocent,  and 
you  must  feel  for  him." 

'•  Yes,  I  feel  for  him,  and  for  you,  too,  ma'am." 

"That  is  all  I  meant.     He  knows  his  own 
innocence,  and  therefore  he  is  unwilling  to  give  ' 
way  in  any  thing." 

"Of  course  he  knows  hisself,  that's  certain. 
But  he'd  better  come  in  the  carriage,  if  only 
because  of  the  dirt  and  slush." 

."He  will  go  in  the  carriage;  and  I  will  go 
with  him.  There  will  be  room  there  for  you, 
Sir." 

Thompson  looked  up  at  the  rain,  and  told  him- 
self that  it  was  very  cold.  Then  he  remember- 
ed Mr.  Walker's  injunction,  and  bethought  him-' 
self  that  Mrs.  Crawley,  in  spite  of  her  jioverty, ' 
was  a  lady.  He  conceived  even  unconsciously  T 
the  idea  that  something  was  due  to  her  because 
of  her  poverty.  "  I'll  go  with  the  driver,"  said' 
he,  "but  he'll  only  give  hisself  a  deal  of  trouble 
if  he  attempts  to  get  out." 

"He  won't;  he  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"And  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  said  Thompson. 

She  went  up  to  her  husband,  hat  in  handjl 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


39 


and,  looking  round  to  see  that  she  was  not  watcli- 
cd,  put  the  hat  on  his  head,  and  then  lifted  him 
as  it  were  from  his  chair.  He  did  not  refuse 
to  be  led,  and  allowed  her  to  throw  round  his 
shoulders  the  old  cloak  which  was  hanging  in 
the  passage,  and  then  he  passed  out,  and  was 
the  first  to  seat  himself  in  the  Silverbridgc  fly. 
His  wife  followed  him,  and  did  not  hear  the 
blandishments  with  which  Thompson  instructed 
liis  myrmidon  to  follow  through  the  mud  on 
foot.  Slowly  they  made  their  way  through  the 
lanes,  and  it  was  nearly  twelve  when  the  fly  was 
driven  into  the  yard  of  the  ''George  and  Vui- 
ture"  at  Silverbridgc.  / 

Silverbridgc,  though  it  was  blessed  with  a 
mayor  and  corporation,  and  was  blessed  also 
with  a  Member  of  rarliament  all  to  itself,  was 
not  blessed  with  any  court-house.  The  mag- 
istrates were  therefore  compelled  to  sit  in  the 
big  room  at  the  ' '  George  and  Vulture, "  in  which 
the  county  balls  were  celebrated,  and  the  meet- 
ing of  the  West  Barsetsliire  freemasons  was  held. 
That  part  of  the  country  was,  no  doubt,  very 
much  a'shamed  of  its  backwardness  in  this  re- 
spect, but  as  yet  nothing  had  been  done  to  rem- 
edy the  evil.  Thompson  and  his  fly  were  there- 
fore driven  into  the  yard  of  the  inn,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Crawley  were  ushered  by  him  up  into 
a  little  bedchamber  close  adjoining  to  the  big 
room  in  which  the  magistrates  were  already  as- 
sembled. "There's  a  bit  of  fire  here,"  said 
Thompson,  "and  you  can  make  yourselves  a 
little  warm."  He  himself  was  shivering  with 
the  cold.  "  When  the  gents  is  ready  in  there 
I'll  just  come  and  fetch  you." 

"I  may  go  in  with  him  ?"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"I'll  have  a  chair  for  you  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  just  nigh  to  him,"  said  Thompson.  "You 
can  slip  into  it  and  say  nothing  to  nobody." 
Then  he  left  them  and  went  away  to  the  mag- 
istrates. 

Mr.  Crawley  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  he 
had  entered  the  vehicle.  Nor  had  she  said  much 
to  him,  but  had  sat  with  him  holding  his  hand  in 
hers.  Now  he  spoke  to  her — "  Where  is  it  that 
we  are  ?"  he  asked. 

"  At  Silverbridgc,  dearest." 
"But  what  is  this  chamber?     And  why  are 
:  we  here?" 

(       "  We  are  to  wait  here  till  the  magistrates  are 
i  ready.     They  are  in  the  next  room." 
[       "But  this  is  the  inn?" 
}       "Yes,  dear,  it  is  the  inn." 

"  And  I  see  crowds  of  people  about."  There 
!  were  crowds  of  people  about.  There  had  been 
I  men  in  the  yard,  and  others  standing  about  on 
the  stairs,  and  the  public  room  was  full  of  men 
I  who  were  curious  to  see  the  clergyman  who  had 
i  stolen  twenty  pounds,  and  to  hear  what  would 
I  be  the  result  of  the  case  before  the  magistrates. 
;  He  must  be  committed ;  so,  at  least,  said  every 
I  body ;  but  then  there  would  be  the  question 
j  of  bail.  Would  tlic  magistrates  let  him  out 
I  on  bail,  and  who  would  be  the  bailsmen  ? 
j  "Why  are  the  people  here?"  said  Mr.  Craw- 
I  ley. 


"I  suppose  it  is  the  custom  when  the  mag- 
istrates are  sitting,"  said  his  wife. 

"They  have  come  to  see  the  degradation  of 
a  clergyman,"  said  he;  "and  they- will  not  be 
disapjiointed." 

"Nothing  can  degrade  but  guilt,"  said  his 
wife. 

"Yes — misfortune  can  degrade,  and  poverty. 
A  man  is  degraded  when  the  cares  of  the  world 
press  so  heavily  upon  him  that  he  can  not  rouse 
himself.  They  have  come  to  look  at  me  as 
though  I  were  a  hunted  beast." 

"  It  is  but  their  custom  always  on  such 
days." 

"They  have  not  always  a  clergyman  before 
them  as  a  criminal."  Then  he  was  silent  for  a 
while,  M'hile  she  was  chafing  his  cold  hands. 
"Would  tliat  I  were  dead  before  tliey  had 
brought  me  to  this !     Would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

"Is  it  not  riglit,  dear,  that  we  should  all 
bear  what  He  sends  us?" 

"Would  that  I  were  dead!"  he  repeated. 
"The  load  is  too  heavy  for  me  to  bear,  and  I 
would  that  I  were  dead !" 

The  time  seemed  to  bo  very  long  before 
Thompson  returned  and  asked  them  to  accom- 
pany him  into  the  big  room.  When  he  did  so 
Mr.  Crawley  grasped  hold  of  his  chair  as  though 
he  had  resolved  that  he  would  not  go.  But 
his  wife  whispered  a  word  to  him,  and  he  obey- 
ed her.  "He  will  follow  me,"  she  said  to  the 
policeman.  And  in  that  way  they  went  from 
the  small  room  into  the  large  one.  Thompson 
went  first ;  Mrs.  Crawley  with  her  veil  down 
came  next;  and  the  wretched  man  followed  his 
wife,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  and 
his  hands  clasped  together  upon  his  breast. 
He  could  at  first  have  seen  nothing,  and  could 
hardly  have  known  where  he  was  when  they 
placed  him  in  a  chair.  She,  with  a  better 
courage,  contrived  to  look  round  through  her 
veil,  and  saw  that  there  was  a  long  board  o;- 
table  covered  with  green  cloth,  and  that  six  or 
seven  gentlemen  were  sitting  at  one  end  of  it, 
while  there  seemed  to  be  a  crowd  standing  along 
the  sides  and  about  the  room.  Her  husband 
was  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  near 
the  corner,  and  round  the  corner — so  that  she 
might  be  close  to  him — her  chair  had  been 
placed.  On  the  other  side  of  him  there  was 
another  chair,  now  empty,  intended  for  any  pro- 
fessional gentleman  whom  he  might  choose  to 
employ. 

There  were  five  magistrates  sitting  there. 
Lord  Lufion,  from  Framicy,  was  in  the  chair — 
a  handsome  man,  still  young,  wlio  was  very 
popular  in  the  county.  The  check  which  had 
been  cashed  had  borne  his  signature,  and  he 
had  consequently  expressed  his  intention  of  not 
sitting  at  the  board ;  but  jNIr.  Walker,  desirous 
of  having  him  there,  had  overruled  him,  show- 
ing him  that  tiie  loss  was  not  his  loss.  The 
check,  if  stolen,  had  not  been  stolen  from  him. 
He  was  not  the  prosecutor.  "No,  by  Jove!" 
said  Lord  Lufton,  "if  I  could  quash  the  whole 
thing,  I'd  do  it  at  once !" 


40 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"You  can't  do  that,  my  lord,  but  you  may 
help  us  at  the  hoard,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

Then  there  was  the  Hun.  George  I)e  Courcy, 
Lord  Dc  Courcy 's  brotlicr,  from  Castle  Courcy. 
Lord  l)c  Courcy  did  not  live  in  the  county,  but 
his  brotiier  did  so,  and  endeavored  to  maintain 
tlie  filory  of  the  family  by  tlie  discretion  of  his 
conduct.  lie  was  not,  ])criiai>s,  amonj^  the 
wisest  of  men,  but  he  did  very  well  as  a  country 
magistrate,  holding  his  tongue,  keeping  his  eyes 
open,  and,  on  such  occasions  as  tliis,  obeying 
Mr.  Walker  in  all  tilings.  Dr.  Tempest  was 
also  there,  the  rector  of  the  parish,  he  being 
both  magistrate  and  clergyman.  There  were 
many  in  Silvcrbridge  wiio  declared  that  Dr. 
Tempest  would  have  done  far  better  to  stay 
away  when  a  brother  clergyman  was  thus  to  be 
brought  before  the  bench  ;  but  it  had  been  long 
since  Dr.  Tempest  had  cared  wliat  was  said 
about  him  in  Silvcrbridge.  He  had  become  so 
accustomed  to  the  life  he  led  as  to  like  to  be 
disliked,  and  to  be  enamored  of  unpopularity. 
So  when  ]\Ir.  Walker  had  ventured  to  suggest  to 
him  tliat,  perhaps,  lie  might  not  clioose  to  be 
there,  he  had  laughed  Mr.  Walker  to  scorn. 
"Of  course  I  shall  be  there,"  he  said.  "I  am 
interested  in  tlie  case— very  much  interested. 
Of  course  I  shall  be  there."  And  had  not  Lord 
Lufton  been  present  he  would  have  made  him- 
self more  conspicuous  by  taking  the  chair.  ]\Ir. 
Fothcrgill  was  the  fourth.  Mr.  Fothergill  was 
man  of  business  to  the  Duke  of  Omnium,  who 
was  the  great  owner  of  property  in  and  about 
Silvcrbridge,  and  he  was  the  most  active  magis- 
trate in  that  part  of  the  county.  He  was  a 
sharp  man,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  have  any 
predisposition  in  favor  of  a  clergyman.  The 
fifth  was  Dr.  Thome,  of  Chaldicotes,  a  gentle- 
man whose  name  has  been  already  mentioned 
in  these  pages.  He  had  been  for  many  years  a 
medical  man  practicing  in  a  little  village  in  the 
further  end  of  tlie  county ;  but  it  had  come  to 
be  his  flxte,  late  in  life,  to  marry  a  great  lieiress, 
with  whose  money  the  ancient  house  and  do- 
main of  Chaldicotes  had  been  purchased  from 
the  Sowerbys.  Since  then  Dr.  Tliorne  had 
done  his  duty  well  as  a  country  gentleman — 
not,  however,  without  some  little  want  of  smooth- 
ness between  him  and  the  duke's  people. 

Chaldicotes  lay  next  to  the  duke's  territory, 
and  the  duke  had  wished  to  buy  Chaldicotes. 
When  Chaldicotes  slipped  through  the  duke's 
fingers  and  went  into  the  hands  of  Dr.  Thorne 
— or  of  Dr.  Thome's  wife — the  duke  had  been 
very  angry  with  JNIr.  Futhergill.  Hence  it  had 
come  to  pass  that  there  had  not  always  been 
smoothness  between  the  duke's  people  and  the 
Clialdicotes  people.  It  was  now  rumored  that 
Dr.  Thorne  intended  to  stand  for  the  county  on 
the  next  vacancy,  and  that  did  not  tend  to  make 
things  snloother.  On  the  right  hand  of  Lord 
Lufton  sat  Lord  George  and  Mr.  Fothergill,  and 
beyond  Mr.  Fothergill  sat  Mr.  Walker,  and  be- 
yond Mr.  Walker  sat  Mv.  Walker's  clerk.  On 
the  left  hand  of  the  chairman  were  Dr.  Tempest 
and  Dr.  Thorne,  and  a  little  lower  down  was 


Mr.  Zachary  Wintlirop,  who  held  the  situation 
of  clerk  to  the  magistrates.  Many  people  in 
Silvcrbridge  said  that  this  was  all  wrong,  as 
]\Ir.  Wintlirop  was  jiartncr  with  Mr.  Walker, 
who  was  always  employed  before  the  magis- 
trates if  there  was  any  employment  going  for 
an  attorney.  For  this,  however,  Mr.  Walker 
cared  very  little.  He  had  so  much  of  his  own 
way  ill  Silvcrbridge  that  he  was  supposed  to 
care  nothing  for  any  body. 

There  were  many  other  gentlemen  in  the 
room,  and  some  who  knew  Mr.  Crawley  with 
more  or  less  intimacy.  He,  however,  took  no- 
tice of  no  one,  and  when  one  friend,  who  had 
really  known  him  well,  came  up  behind  and 
spoke  to  him  gently,  leaning  over  his  cliair,  the 
poor  man  iiardly  recognized  his  friend. 

"I'm  sure  your  husband  won't  forget  me," 
said  Mr.  Robarts,  the  clergyman  of  Framley,  as 
he  gave  his  hand  to  that  lady  across  the  back 
of  Mr.  Crawley's  chair. 

"No,  Mr.  Kobarts,  he  does  not  forget  you. 
But  you  must  excuse  him  if  at  this  moment  he 
is  not  quite  himself.  It  is  a  trying  situation  for 
a  clergyman." 

"I  can  understand  all  that ;  but  I'll  tell  you 
why  I  have  come.  I  suppose  this  inquiry  will 
finish  the  whole  affair,  and  clear  up  whatever 
may  be  the  difficulty.  But  should  it  not  do  so, 
it  may  be  just  possible,  IMrs.  Crawley,  that  some- 
thing may  be  said  about  bail.  I  don't  under- 
stand much  about  it,  and  I  dare  say  you  do  not 
either  ;  but  if  there  sliould  be  any  thing  of  that 
sort,  let  IVIr.  Crawley  name  me.  A  brother 
clergyman  will  be  best,  and  I'll  have  some 
other  gentleman  with  me."  Then  he  left  her, 
not  waiting  for  any  answer. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  a  conversation 
going  on  between  Mr.  Walker  and  another  at- 
torney standing  behind  him,  Mr.  Mason.  "I'll 
go  to  him,"  said  Walker,  "and  try  to  arrange 
it."  So  Mr.  Walker  seated  himself  in  the  enijity 
chair  beside  Mr.  Crawlej',  and  endeavored  to 
explain  to  the  wretched  man  that  he  would  do 
well  to  allow  l\fr.  Mason  to  assist  him.  Mr.  Craw- 
ley seemed  to  listen  to  all  that  was  said,  and 
then  turned  upon  the  speaker  sharply:  "I  will 
have  no  one  to  assist  me,"  he  said  so  loudly  that 
every  one  in  the  room  heard  the  words.  "I 
am  innocent.  Why  should  I  want  assistance  ? 
Nor  have  I  money  to  pay  for  it."  Mr.  Mason 
made  a  quick  movement  forward,  intending  to 
explain  that  that  consideration  need  oft'er  no 
impediment,  but  was  stopped  by  further  speech 
from  Mr.  Crawley.  "I  will  have  no  one  to 
help  me,"  said  he,  standing  upright,  and  for  the 
first  time  removing  his  hat  from  his  head.  "  Go 
on,  and  do  what  it  is  you  have  to  do."  After 
that  he  did  not  sit  down  till  the  proceedings 
were  nearly  over,  though  he  was  invited  more 
than  once  by  Lord  Lufton  to  do  so. 

We  need  not  go  tlirough  all  the  evidence  that 
was  brought  to  bear  upon  the  question.  It  was 
proved  that  money  for  the  check  was  paid  to 
Mr.  Crawley's  messenger,  and  that  this  money 
was  given  to  Jlr.  Crawley.     When   there  oc- 


1 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


41 


cnrred  some  little  delay  in  the  chain  of  evidence 
necessary  to  show  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  signed 
and  sent  the  check  and  got  the  money  he  be- 
came impatient.  "  AVhy  do  you  trouble  the 
man ?"  he  said.  "I  had  the  check,  and  I  sent 
him  ;  I  got  the  money.  Has  any  one  denied  it, 
that  you  should  strive  to  drive  a  poor  man  like 
that  beyond  his  wits?"  Then  Mr.  Soames  and 
the  manager  of  the  bank  showed  what  inquiry 
had  been  made  as  soon  as  the  check  came  back 
from  the  London  bank ;  how  at  first  they  had 
both  thought  tliat  Mr.  Crawley  could  of  course 
explain  the  matter,  and  how  he  had  explained  . 
C 


it  by  a  statement  which  was  manifestly  untrue. 
Then  there  was  evidence  to  prove  that  the  check 
could  not  have  been  paid  to  him  by  Mr.  Soames, 
and  as  this  was  given  Mr.  Crawley  shook  his 
head  and  again  became  impatient.  "I  erred 
in  that,"  he  exclaimed.  "Of  course  I  erred. 
In  my  haste  I  thought  it  was  so,  and  in  my  haste 
I  said  so.  I  am  not  good  at  reckoning  money 
and  I'emembering  sums;  but  I  saw  that  I  had 
been  wrong  when  my  error  was  shown  to  me, 
and  I  acknowledged  at  once  that  I  had  been 
wrong." 

Up  to  this  point  he  had  behaved  not  only  with 


42 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


so  much  sjjirit,  but  with  so  much  reason,  that 
his  wife  began  to  hope  that  tlie  imj)ortancc  of 
the  occasion  had  brought  back  tlie  clearness  of 
his  mind,  and  that  he  would,  even  now,  be  able 
to  jdace  himself  right  as  the  inquiry  went  on. 
Then  it  was  c.\i)lained  that  Mr.  Crawley  had 
stated  that  the  check  had  been  given  to  him  by 
Dean  Arabin,  as  soon  as  it  was  shown  that  it 
could  not  have  been  given  to  him  by  INIr.  Soames. 
In  reference  to  this,  ]\Ir.  Walker  was  obliged  to 
cxi)Iain  that  apidieation  had  been  made  to  the 
dean,  who  was  abroad,  and  that  the  dean  had 
stated  that  he  had  given  fifty  pounds  to  his 
friend.  Mr.  Walker  explained  also  that  the 
very  notes  of  whicli  tliis  fifty  pounds  had  consist- 
ed had  been  traced  back  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and 
that  they  had  had  no  connection  with  the  check 
or  with  the  money  which  had  been  given  for  the 
check  at  the  bank. 

Mr.  Soames  stated  that  he  had  lost  the  check 
with  a  pocket-book ;  that  he  had  certainly  lost 
it  on  the  day  on  which  he  had  called  on  Mr. 
Crawley  at  Ilogglestock ;  and  that  he  missed 
his  pocket-book  on  his  journey  back  from  Hog- 
glestock  to  Barchester.  At  the  moment  of 
missing  it  he  remembered  that  he  had  taken  the 
book  out  from  his  pocket  in  Mr.  Crawley's  room, 
and,  at  that  moment,  he  had  not  doubted  but 
that  he  had  left  it  in  Mr.  Crawley's  house.  lie 
had  written  and  sent  to  Mr.  Crawley  to  inquire, 
but  had  been  assured  that  nothing  had  been 
found.  There  had  been  no  other  pi'operty  of 
value  in  the  pocket-book — nothing  but  a  few  vis- 
itinj;  cards  and  a  memorandum,  and  he  had 
therefore  stopped  the  check  at  the  London  bank, 
and  thought  no  more  about  it. 

Mr.  Crawley  was  then  asked  to  explain  in 
what  way  he  came  possessed  of  the  check.  The 
question  was  first  put  by  Lord  Lufton ;  but  it 
soon  fell  into  Mr.  Walker's  hands,  who  certain- 
ly asked  it  with  all  the  kindness  with  which 
such  an  inquiry  could  be  made.  Could  Mr. 
Crawley  at  all  remember  by  what  means  that 
bit  of  paper  had  come  into  his  possession,  or  how 
long  he  had  had  it?  He  answered  the  last 
question  first.  "It  had  been  with  him  for 
months."  And  why  had  he  kept  it  ?  He  looked 
round  the  room  sternly,  almost  savagely,  before 
he  answered,  fixing  his  eyes  for  a  moment  upon 
almost  every  face  around  him  as  he  did  so. 
Then  he  spoke.  "I  was  driven  by  shame  lo 
keep  it — and  then  by  shame  to  use  it."  That 
this  statement  was  true  no  one  in  the  room 
doubted. 

And  then  the  other  question  was  pi'cssed  upon 
him  ;  and  he  lifted  up  his  hands,  and  raised  his 
voice,  and  swore  by  the  Saviour  in  whom  he  ' 
trusted  that  he  knew  not  from  whence  the 
money  had  come  to  him.  Why  then  had  he 
said  that  it  had  come  from  the  dean  ?  He  had 
thought  so.  The  dean  had  given  him  money, 
covered  up  in  an  inclosure,  "so  that  the  touch 
of  the  coin  might  not  add  to  my  disgrace  in  tak- 
ing his  alms,"  said  the  wretched  man,  thus 
speaking  openly  and  freely  in  his  agony  of  the  !■ 


hide.  He  had  not  seen  the  dean's  moneys  as 
they  had  been  given,  and  he  had  thought  that 
the  check  had  been  with  them.  Beyond  that 
he  could  tell  them  nothing. 

Then  there  was  a  conference  between  the 
magistrates  and  Mr.  Walker,  in  which  Mr. 
Walker  submitted  that  the  magistrates  had  no 
alternative  but  to  commit  the  gentleman.  To 
this  Lord  Lufton  demurred,  and  with  him  Dr. 
Thornc. 

"I  believe,  as  I  am  sitting  here,"  said  Lord 
Lufton,  "tliat  he  has  told  the  truth,  and  that 
he  does  not  know  any  raorc  than  I  do  from 
whence  the  check  came." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  does  not,"  said  Dr. 
Thorne. 

Lord  George  remarked  that  it  was  the  "queer- 
est go  he  had  ever  come  across."  Dr.  Tempest 
merely  shook  his  head.  Mr.  Fothergill  pointed 
out  that  even  suj)posing  the  gentleman's  state- 
ment to  be  true,  it  by  no  means  went  toward 
establishing  the  gentleman's  innocence.  Tlic 
check  had  been  traced  to  the  gentleman's  hands, 
and  the  gentleman  was  bound  to  show  how  it 
had  come  into  his  possession.  Even  supposing 
that  the  gentleman  had  found  the  check  in  his 
house,  which  was  likely  enough,  he  was  not 
thereby  justified  in  changing  it,  and  aj)plying 
the  proceeds  to  his  own  purposes.  Mr.  Walker 
told  them  that  Mr.  Fothergill  was  right,  and 
that  the  only  excuse  to  be  made  for  Mr.  Craw- 
ley was  that  he  was  out  of  his  senses. 

"I  don't  see  it,"  said  Lord  Lufton.  "I 
might  have  a  lot  of  paper-money  by  me  and 
not  know  from  Adam  where  I  got  it." 

"  But  you  would  have  to  show  where  you  got 
it,  my  lord,  when  inquiry  was  made,"  said  Mr. 
Fothergill. 

Lord  Lufton,  who  was  not  particularly  fond 
of  Mr.  Fothergill,  and  was  very  unwilling  to  be 
instructed  by  him  in  any  of  the  duties  of  a  mag- 
istrate, turned  his  back  at  once  upon  the  duke's 
agent ;  but  within  three  minutes  afterward  he 
had  submitted  to  the  same  instructions  from 
Mr.  Walker. 

Mr.  Crawley  had  again  seated  himself,  and 
during  this  period  of  the  aft\;ir  was  leaning  over 
the  table  with  his  face  buried  on  his  arms.  Mrs. 
Crawley  sat  by  his  side,  utterly  impotent  as  to 
any  assistance,  just  touching  him  with  her  hand, 
and  waiting  behind  her  veil  till  she  should  be 
made  to  understand  what  was  the  decision  of 
the  magistrates.  This  was  at  last  communica- 
ted to  her — and  to  him — in  a  whisper  by  Mr. 
Walker.  Mr.  Crawley  must  understand  that  he 
,was  committed  to  take  his  trial  at  Barchester 
at  the  next  assizes,  which  Avould  be  held  in  April, 
but  that  bail  would  be  taken — his  own  bail  in  five 
hundred  pounds,  and  that  of  two  others  in  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  each.  And  Mr. 
Walker  explained  further  that  he  and  the  bail- 
men  were  ready,  and  that  the  bail-bond  was 
prepared.  The  bailmen  were  to  be  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Robarts  and  Major  Grantly.  In  five  min- 
utes the  bond  was  signed,  and  Mr.  Crawley 
shame  which  he  had  striven  so  persistently  to'l  was   at  liberty  to  go  away,  a  free   man — till 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


43 


the  Barchester  Assizes  should  come  round  in 
April. 

Of  all  that  was  going  on  at  this  time  Mr. 
Crawley  knew  little  or  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley did  not  know  much.  She  did  say  a  word 
of  thanks  to  Mr.  Robarts,  and  begged  that  the 
same  might  be  said  to — the  other  gentleman. 
If  she  had  heard  the  major's  name  she  did  not 
remember  it.  Then  they  were  led  out  back  into 
the  bedroom,  where  Mrs.  Walker  was  found, 
anxious  to  do  something,  if  she  only  knew  what, 
to  comfort  the  wretched  husband  and  the  wretch- 
ed wife.  But  what  comfortlifr  consolation  could 
there  be  within  their  reach?  There  was  tea 
made  ready  for  them,  and  sandwiches  cut  from 
the  inn  larder.  And  there  was  sherry  in  the 
inn  decanter.  But  no  such  comfort  as  that 
was  possible  for  either  of  tlieni. 

They  were  taken  home  again  in  the  ily,  re- 
turning without  the  escort  of  Mr.  Thompson, 
and  as  they  went  some  few  words  were  spoken 
by  Mrs.  Crawley.  "  Josiah,"  she  said,  "there 
will  be  a  way  out  of  this,  even  yet,  if  you  will 
only  hold  up  your  head  and  trust." 

"  Tlierc  is  a  way  out  of  it,"  he  said.  "  Tiiere 
is  a  way.  There  is  but  one  wa}'."  When  he 
had  so  spoken  she  said  no  more,  but  resolved 
that  her  eye  should  never  be  off  him,  no — not 
for  a  moment.  Tlien,  when  she  had  gotten  him 
once  more  into  that  front  parlor,  she  threw  her 
arms  round  him  and  kissed  him. 


^       \^ 


.-^^ftv 


^M'^'  ^r^ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GRACE   CRAWLEY   GOES   TO    ALLINGTON. 

The  tidings  of  what  had  been  done  by  the 
magistrates  at  their  petty  sessions  was  commu- 
'nicated  the  same  night  to  Grace  Crawley  by 
JMiss  Prettyman.      Miss  Anne  Pretty  man  had 


heard  the  news  within  five  minutes  of  the  exe- 
cution of  the  bail-bond,  and  had  rushed  to  her 
sister  with  information  as  to  the  event.  "  They 
have  found  iiim  guilty  ;  they  have,  indeed. 
They  have  convicted  him — or  whatever  it  is, 
because  he  couldn't  say  where  he  got  it."  "You 
do  not  mean  that  they  have  sent  him  to  prison  ?" 
"No — not  to  prison;  not  as  yet,  that  is.  I 
don't  understand  it  altogether;  but  he's  to  be 
tried  again  at  the  assizes.  In  the  mean  time 
he's  to  be  out  on  bail.  Major  Grantly  is  to  be 
the  bail — he  and  Mr.  Robarts.  That,  I  think, 
was  very  nice  of  him."  It  was  undoubtedly  the 
fact  that  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  had  received  an 
accession  of  pleasurable  emotion  when  she  learn- 
ed that  Mr.  Crawley  had  not  been  sent  away 
scathless,  but  had  been  condemned,  as  it  were, 
to  a  public  trial  at  the  assizes.  And  yet  she 
would  have  done  any  thing  in  her  power  to  save 
Grace  Crawley,  or  even  to  save  her  father.  And 
it  must  be  explained  that  Miss  Anne  Pretty- 
man was  supposed  to  be  specially  efficient  in 
teaching  Roman  history  to  her  pupils,  although 
she  was  so  manifestly  ignorant  of  the  course 
of  law  in  the  country  in  which  she  lived. 
"Committed  him,"  said  Miss  Prettyman,  cor- 
recting her  sister  with  scorn.  "They  have  not 
convicted  him.  Had  they  convicted  him  there 
could  be  no  question  of  bail."  "I  don't  know 
how  all  that  is,  Annabella,  but  at  any  rate  Ma- 
jor Grantly  is  to  be  the  bailsman,  and  there  is 
to  be  another  trial  at  Barchester."  "There 
can  not  be  more  than  one  trial  in  a  criminal 
case,"  said  Miss  Prettyman,  "unless  the  jury 
should  disagree,  or  something  of  that  kind.  I 
suppose  he  has  been  committed,  and  that  the 
trial  will  take  place  at  the  assizes."  "Exactly 
— that's  just  it."  Had  Lord  Lufton  appeared  as 
lictor,  and  had  Thompson  carried  the  fasces, 
Miss  Anne  would  have  known  more  about  it. 

The  sad  tidings  were  not  told  to  Grace  till 
the  evening.  Mrs.  Crawley,  when  the  inquiry 
was  over  before  the  magistrates,  would  fain  have 
had  herself  driven  to  the  MissPrettyman's  school 
that  she  might  see  her  daughter;  but  she  felt 
that  to  be  impossible  while  her  husband  was  in 
her  charge.  The  father  would  of  course  have 
gone  to  his  child,  had  the  visit  been  suggested 
to  him ;  but  that  would  have  caused  another 
teri'ible  scene ;  and  the  mother,  considering  it 
all  in  her  mind,  thouglit  it  better  to  abstain. 
Miss  Prettyman  did  her  best  to  make  poor  Grace 
tliink  that  the  affair  had  gone  so  far  favorably — 
did  her  best,  that  is,  without  saying  any  thing 
which  her  conscience  told  her  to  be  false.  "It 
is  to  be  settled  at  the  assizes  in  April,"  she  said. 

"And  in  the  mean  time  what  will  become  of 
papa?" 

"Your  papa  will  be  at  home,  just  as  usual. 
He  must  have  some  one  to  advise  him.  I  dare 
say  it  would  have  been  all  over  now  if  he  would 
have  employed  an  attorney." 

"  But  it  seems  so  hard  that  an  attorney  should 
be  wanted." 

"My  dear  Grace,  things  in  this  world  are 
hard." 


u 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 


"Rut  tlicy  fire  always  harder  for  papa  and 
mainma  than  for  any  body  else."  In  answer 
to  this  Miss  I'rcttyman  made  some  remarks  in- 
tended to  be  wise  and  kind  at  the  same  time. 
Grace,  whose  eyes  were  hxden  with  tears,  made 
no  immediate  rei)ly  to  tliis,  but  reverted  to  her 
former  statement  that  she  must  go  liome.  "I 
can  not  remain,  Miss  rrettyman ;  I  am  so  un- 
happy." 

"  Will  yon  be  more  lia|>])y  iit  home?" 

"  I  can  bear  it  better  there." 

The  i)oor  j;irl  soon  learned  from  the  intended 
consolations  of  those  around  her,  from  the  ill- 
considered  kindnesses  of  the  jnijiils,  and  from 
words  wliii-!i  fell  from  the  servants,  that  her  fa- 
ther had  in  fact  i)cen  judged  to  be  guilty,  as  far 
as  judgment  hail  as  yet  gone.  "They  do  say, 
miss,  it's  only  because  he  hadn't  a  lawyer,"  said 
tlie  Iiousckeeper.  And  if  men  so  kind  as  Lord 
Lufton  and  -Mr.  Walker  had  made  him  out  to 
be  guilty,  what  could  be  expected  from  a  stern 
judge  down  from  London,  who  would  know  no- 
thing about  her  ]:o)r  father  and  his  peculiari- 
ties, and  from  t^vcIvo  jurymen  wlio  would  bo 
shoi)-kcepers  out  of  Barchestcr?  It  would  kill 
licr  fatlier,  and  then  it  would  kill  her  mother; 
and  after  that  it  would  kill  lier  also.  And  there 
was  no  money  in  the  house  at  home.  She  knew 
it  well.  She  had  been  paid  three  pounds  a 
month  for  her  services  at  the  school,  and  the 
money  for  the  last  two  months  had  been  sent  to 
her  mother.  Yet,  badly  as  she  wanted  any 
thing  that  slie  miglit  be  able  to  earn,  she  knew 
that  she  could  not  go  on  teaching.  It  had 
come  to  be  acknowledged  by  both  the  Miss 
Prettymans  that  any  teaching  on  her  part  for 
the  present  was  impossible.  Siie  would  go 
home  and  perish  with  the  rest  of  them.  There 
was  no  room  left  for  hope  to  her,  or  to  any  of 
h3r  family.  They  had  accused  her  father  of 
being  a  common  thief — her  father  whom  she 
knew  to  be  so  nobly  honest,  her  father  whom  she 
believed  to  be  among  the  most  devoted  of  God's 
servants.  He  was  accused  of  a  paltry  theft, 
and  the  magistrates  and  lawyers  and  policemen 
among  them  had  decided  tliat  the  accusation 
was  true!  How  could  she  look  the  girls  in  the 
face  after  that,  or  attempt  to  hold  her  own  among 
the  teacliers ! 

On  tlie  next  morning  there  came  tlie  letter 
from  Miss  Lily  Dale,  and  with  that  in  her  hand 
she  again  went  to  Miss  Prettyman.  She  must 
go  home,  she  said.  She  must  at  any  rate  see 
her  mother.  Could  Miss  Prettyman  be  kind 
enough  to  send  her  home.  "  I  haven't  sixpence 
to  pay  for  any  thing,"  she  said,  bursting  out  into 
tears;  "and  I  haven't  a  right  to  ask  for  it." 
Then  the  statements  which  Miss  Prettyman 
made  in  her  eagerness  to  cover  this  latter  mis- 
fortune wore  decidedly  false.  There  was  so 
much  money  owing  to  Grace,  she  said ;  money 
for  this,  money  for  that,  money  for  any  thing 
or  nothing !  Ten  pounds  would  hardly  clear 
the  account.  "  Nobody  owes  me  any  thing ; 
but  if  you'll  lend  mo  five  shillings  !"  said  Grace, 
in  her  agony.     Miss  Prettyman,  as  sho  made 


her  way  through  this  difficulty,  thought  of  Ma- 
jor Grantly  and  his  love.  It  would  have  been 
of  no  use,  she  knew.  Had  she  brought  them  to- 
gether on  that  Monday,  Grace  would  have  said 
nothing  to  him.  Indeed  such  a  meeting  at  such 
a  time  would  have  been  improper.  Put  regard- 
ing ftlajor  Grantly,  as  she  did,  in  the  light  of  a 
millionaire — for  the  wealth  of  the  archdeacon 
was  notorious — slie  could  not  but  think  it  a  pity 
that  poor  Grace  should  be  begging  for  five  shil- 
lings. "  You  need  not  at  any  rate  trouble  your- 
self about  money,  Grace,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 
"  Wiuit  is  a  i)ound|Jr  two  more  or  less  between 
yon  and  me?  It  is  almost  unkind  of  you  to 
think  about  it.  Is  that  letter  in  your  hand  j 
any  thing  for  me  to  see,  my  dear?"  Then  ( 
Grace  exjilained  tliat  she  did  not  wish  to  show  j 
Miss  Dale's  letter,  but  that  Miss  Dale  had  asked 
her  to  go  to  Allington.  "And  you  will  go," 
said  IMiss  Prettyman.  "It  will  be  the  best 
thing  for  you,  and  the  best  thing  for  your  mo- 
ther."' 

It  was  at  last  decided  that  Grace  should  go 
to  her  friend  at  Allington,  and  to  Allington  slio 
livent.  She  returned  home  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  was  persuaded  by  her  mother  to  accept  the 
invitation  tliat  had  been  given  her.  At  Ilog- 
glcstock,  while  she  was  there,  new  troubles 
came  up,  of  which  something  shall  shortly  be 
told ;  but  they  were  troubles  in  which  Grace 
could  give  no  assistance  to  her  mother,  and 
which,  indeed,  thougli  they  were  in  truth  trou- 
bles, as  will  be  seen,  were  so  far  beneficent  that 
they  stirred  her  father  up  to  a  certain  action 
which  was  in  itself  salutary.  "  I  think  it  will 
be  better  that  you  should  be  away,  dearest," 
said  the  mother,  who  now,  for  the  first  time, 
heard  plainly  all  that  poor  Grace  had  to  tell 
about  Major  Grantly — Grace  having,  heretofore, 
barely  spoken,  in  most  ambiguous  words,  of 
I\Injor  Grantly  as  a  gentleman  whom  she  had 
met  at  Eramley,  and  whom  she  had  described 
as  being  "very  nice." 

■  In   old    days,  long   ago,  Lucy   Kobarts,  the 
present  Lady  Lufton,  sister  of  the  Rev.  Mark 
Robarts,  the  parson  of  Framlc}-,  had  sojourned 
for  a  while  under  Mr.  Crawley's  roof  at  Hogglc- 
stock.     Peculiar  circumstances,  which  need  not, 
perhaps,  be  told  here,  had  given  occasion  for 
this  visit.     She  had  then  resolved — for  her  fu- 
ture destiny  had  been  known  to  her  before  she 
left  Mrs.  Crawley's  house — that  she  would  in 
coming  days  do  much  to  befriend  the  family  of 
her  friend ;  but  the  doing  of  much  had  been 
very  difficult.     And  the  doing  of  any  thing  had 
come  to  be  very  difficult  through  a  certain  indis- 
cretion on  Lord  Lufton's  part.     Lord  Lufton     j 
had  oftered  assistance,  pecuniary  assistance,  to     I 
Mr.  Crawley,  which  Mr.  Crawley  had  rejected     j 
with  outspoken  anger.     What  was  Lord  Lufton     j 
to  him  that  his  lordship  should  dare  to  come  to    j 
him  with  his  paltry  money  in  his  hand?     But     1 
after    a   while   Lady   Lufton,  exercising   some     i 
cunning  in  the  operations  of  her  friendship,  had    1 
persuaded  her  sister-in-law  at  the  Framley  par-    ' 
sonage  to  have  Grace  Crawley  over  there  as  a 


I 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


45 


risitor — and  thc/c  she  had  been  during  the  sum- 
mer holidnvs  ))revions  to  the  comnicncenient  of 
our  story.  And  there,  at  Franilcy,  she  had  be- 
come acqtiainted  with  Major  Grantly,  who  was 
staying  with  Lord  Lufton  at  Framley  Court. 
8hc  had  then  said  something  to  her  mother 
about  Major  Grantly,  sometliing  ambiguous, 
something  about  liis  being  "  very  nice,"  and  the 
mother  had  thought  how  great  was  the  pity  that 
her  daughter,  who  was  "nice"  too  in  her  esti- 
mation, shouUl  have  so  few  of  those  adjuncts  to 
assist  her  wliich  come  from  full  pockets.  She 
had  thought  no  more  aboW  it  then;  but  now 
she  felt  herself  constrained  to  think  more.  "I 
don't  quite  understand  why  he  should  have 
come  to  Miss  Prettyman  on  Monday,"  said 
Grace,  "because  he  hardly  knows  her  at  all." 

"I  suppose  it  was  on  business,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"No,  mamma,  it  was  not  on  business." 

"How  can  you  tell,  dear?" 

"  Because  Miss  Prettyman  said  it  was — it  was 
— to  ask  after  me.  Oh,  mamma,  I  must  tell  you. 
I  know  he  did  like  me." 

"Did  he  ever  say  so  to  you,  dearest?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"And  what  did  j-ou  tell  him  ?"' 

"I  told  him  nothing,  mamma." 

"And  did  he  ask  to  see  you  on  IMonday?" 

"No,  manmia;  I  don't  think  he  did.  I 
think  he  understood  it  all  too  well,  for  I  could 
not  have  spoken  to  him  then." 

Mrs.  Crawley  pursued  the  cross-examination 
no  further,  but  made  up  her  mind  that  it 
would  be  better  that  her  girl  sliould  be  away 
from  her  wretched  home  during  this  period  of 
her  life.  If  it  were  written  in  the  book  of  fate 
that  one  of  her  children  should  be  exempted 
from  the  series  of  misfortunes  which  seemed  to 
fall,  one  after  another,  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course,  upon  her  luisband,  upon  her,  and  upon 
her  family  ;  if  so  great  good  fortune  were  in  store 
for  her  Grace  as  such  a  marriage  as  this  which 
seemed  to  be  so  nearly  otfered  to  her,  it  might 
probably  be  well  that  Grace  should  be  as  little 
at  home  as  possible.  ]\Irs.  Crawley  had  heard 
nothing'  but  good  of  Major  Grantly ;  but  she 
knew  that  the  Grantlys  were  proud,  rich  peojilc 
— who  lived  with  their  heads  high  up  in  the 
county — and  it  could  hardly  be  that  a  son  of  tlie 
archdeacon  would  like  to  take  his  bride  direct 
from  Hogglestock  parsonage. 

It  was  settled  that  Grace  should  go  to  Ailing- 
ton  as  soon  as  a  letter  could  be  received  from 
Miss  Dale  in  return  to  Grace's  note,  and  on  the 
third  morning  after  her  arrival  at  home  slie 
started.  None  but  they  who  have  themselves 
been  poor  gentry — gentry  so  poor  as  not  to  know 
how  to  raise  a  shilling — can  understand  the  pe- 
culiar bitterness  of  the  trials  which  such  poverty 
produces.  The  poverty  of  the  normal  poor  does 
not  approach  it;  or,  rather,  the  pangs  arising 
from  such  poverty  are  altogether  of  a  different 
sort.  To  be  hungry  and  have  no  food,  to  bo 
coldand  have  no  fuel,  to  be  threatened  with  dis- 
traint for  one's  few  chairs  and  tables,  ar.d  with 


the  loss  of  the  roof  over  one's  head — all  these 
miseries,  which,  if  they  do  not  jiositively  reach, 
are  so  frequcntlj^  near  to  reacliing  the  normal 
poor,  are,  no  doubt,  the  severest  of  the  trials  to 
which  humanity  is  suhjected.  They  threaten 
life — or,  if  not  life,  then  liberty — reducing  the 
abject  one  to  a  choice  between  captivity  and 
starvation.  By  hook  or  crook,  the  poor  gentle- 
man or  poor  lady — let  the  one  or  the  other  be 
ever  so  poor — does  not  often  come  to  the  last 
extremity  of  the  work-house.  There  are  such 
cases,  but  they  are  exceptional.  Mrs.  Crawley, 
througli  all  her  sufferings,  had  never  yet  found 
her  cujiboard  to  be  absolutely  bare,  or  the  bread- 
])an  to  be  actually  empty.  But  there  are  pangs 
to  which,  at  the  time,  starvation  itself  would 
seem  to  be  preferable.  The  angry  eyes  of  un- 
paid tradesmen,  savage  with  an  anger  which  one 
knows  to  be  justifiable;  the  taunt  of  the  poor 
servant  who  wants  her  wages ;  the  gradual  re- 
linquishment of  habits  which  the  soft  nurture  of 
earlier,  kinder  years  had  made  second  nature; 
the  wan  cheeks  of  the  wife  whose  malady  de- 
mands wine ;  the  rags  of  the  husband  whose  out- 
ward occupations  demand  decency ;  the  neglected 
children,  w  ho  are  learning  not  to  be  the  children, 
of  gentlefolk  ;  and,  worse  than  all,  the  alms  and 
doles  of  half-generous  friends,  the  waning  pride, 
the  pride  that  w-ill  not  wane,  the  growing  doubt 
whether  it  be  not  better  to  bow  the  head,  and 
acknowledge  to  all  the  world  that  nothing  of 
the  pride  of  station  is  left — that  the  hand  is  o]icn 
to  receive  and  ready  to  touch  the  cap,  that  the 
fall  from  the  upper  to  the  lower  level  has  been 
accomplished — these  are  the  pangs  of  poverty 
which  drive  the  Crawleys  of  the  world  to  the 
frequent  entertaining  of  that  idea  of  the  bare 
bodkin.  It  was  settled  that  Grace  should  go  to 
Allington;  but  how  about  her  clothes?  And 
then,  whence  was  to  come  the  price  of  her  jour- 
ney? 

"I  don't  think  they'll  mind  about  my  being 
shabby  at  Allington.  They  live  very  quietly 
there." 

"But  you  say  that  Miss  Dale  is  so  very  nice 
in  all  her  ways." 

"Lily  isverynice,  mamma ;  but  I  sha'n'tm.ind 
her  so  much  as  her  mother,  because  she  knows 
it  all.     I  have  told  her  every  thing." 

"But  you  have  given  me  all  your  money, 
dearest." 

"Miss  Prettyman  told  me  I  was  to  come  to 
her,"  said  Grace,  who  had  already-  taken  some 
small  sum  from  the  schoolmistress,  which  at 
once  had  gone  into  her  mother's  pocket,  and 
into  household  purposes.  "She  said  I  should 
be  sure  to  go  to  Allington,  and  that  of  course  I 
should  go  to  her,  as  I  must  pass  through  Silver- 
bridge." 

"I  hope  papa  will  not  ask  about  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley.  Luckily  papa  did  not  ask  about 
it,  being  at  the  moment  occupied  much  with 
other  thoughts  and  other  troubles,  and  Grace 
was  allowed  to  return  by  Silverbridge,  and  to 
take  what  was  needed  from  JSIiss  Prettyman. 
Who  can  tell  of  the  mending  and  patching,  of 


4G 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


tlic  weary  wearing  midnight  liouis  of  needle- 
work which  were  at'conii)lished  before  the  poor 
pirl  went,  so  that  she  might  not  readi  her  friend's 
house  in  actual  rags?  And  when  the  work  was 
ended,  what  was  there  to  show  for  it  ?  I  do  not 
think  tliat  the  idea  of  the  bare  bodkin,  as  re- 
garded herself,  ever  flitted  ncross  Mrs.  Crawley's 
brain — she  being  one  of  those  who  arc  very 
strong  to  endure ;  but  it  must  have  occurred  to 
her  very  often  that  the  re]>ose  of  the  grave  is 
sweet,  and  that  there  cometli  after  deatii  a  lev- 
eling and  making  even  of  things  which  would 
at  last  cure  all  her  evils. 

Grace  no  doubt  looked  forward  to  a  leveling 
and  making  even  of  things — or  perhajis  even  to 
something  more  prosperous  thaii  that,  which 
should  come  to  her  relief  on  this  side  of  the 
grave.  She  could  not  but  have  high  hojies  in 
regard  to  her  future  destiny.  Although,  as  has 
been  said,  she  understood  no  more  than  she 
ought  to  have  understood  from  Miss  Prettyman's 
account  of  the  conversation  with  Major  Grant- 
ly,  still,  innocent  as  she  was,  she  had  understood 
much.  She  knew  that  the  man  loved  her,  and 
she  knew  also  that  she  loved  the  man.  She 
tliorouglily  comprehended  that  the  present  could 
be  to  her  no  time  for  listening  to  speeches  of 
love,  or  for  giving  kind  answers ;  but  still  I 
think  that  she  did  look  for  relief  on  this  side  of 
the  grave. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  Miss  Pretty  man,  as  Grace 
in  vain  tried  to  conceal  her  tears  nj)  in  the  pri- 
vate sanctum.  "You  ought  to  know  me  by 
this  time,  and  to  have  learned  that  I  can  under- 
stand things."  The  tears  had  flown  in  return 
not  only  for  tlie  five  gold  sovereigns  which  Miss 
Prettyman  had  pressed  into  her  hand,  but  on 
account  of  the  prettiest,  soft,  gray  merino  frock 
that  ever  charmed  a  girl's  eye.  "I  should  like 
to  know  how  many  girls  I  have  given  dresses 
to  when  they  have  been  going  out  visiting. 
Law,  my  dear ;  they  take  them,  many  of  them, 
from  us  old  maids,  almost  as  if  we  were  only 
paying  our  debts  in  giving  them."  And  then 
Miss  Anne  gave  her  a  cloth  cloak,  very  warm, 
with  pretty  buttons  and  gimp  trimmings — just 
such  a  cloak  as  any  girl  might  like  to  wear  who 
thought  that  she  would  be  seen  out  walking  by 
her  ISIajor  Grantly  on  a  Christmas  morning. 
Grace  Crawley  did  not  expect  to  be  seen  out 
walking  by  her  Major  Grantly,  but  nevertheless 
she  liked  the  cloak.  By  the  power  of  her  prac- 
tical will,  and  by  her  true  sympathy,  the  elder 
Miss  Prettyman  had  for  a  while  conquered  the 
annoyance  which,  on  Grace's  part,  was  attached 
to  the  receiving  of  gifts,  by  the  consciousness  of 
her  poverty ;  and  when  Miss  Anne,  with  some 
pride  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  expressed  a  hope 
that  Grace  would  think  the  cloak  pretty,  Grace 
put  her  arms  pleasantly  round  her  friend's  neck, 
and  declared  that  it  was  very  pretty — the  pretti- 
est cloak  in  all  the  world ! 

Grace  was  met  at  the  Guestwiek  railway-sta- 
tion by  her  friend  Lilian  Dale,  and  was  driven 
over  to  Allington  in  a  pony  carriage  belonging 
to  Lilian's  uncle,  the  squire  of  the  parish.     I 


think  she  will  be  excused  in  having  put  on  her 
new  cloak,  not  so  much  because  of  the  cold  as 
with  a  view  of  making  the  best  of  herself  before 
Mrs.  Dale.  And  yet  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Dale 
would  know  all  the  circumstances  of  her  pover- 
ty, and  was  very  glad  tiiat  it  siiould  be  so.  "I 
am  so  glad  that  you  have  come,  dear,"  said  Lily, 
"  It  will  be  such  a  comfort." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  very  good,"  said  Grace. 

"And  mamma  is  so  glad.  Prom  the  mo- 
ment that  we  both  talked  ourselves  into  eager- 
ness about  it — while  I  was  writing  my  letter, 
you  ktiow,  we  resolved  that  it  must  be  so." 

"  Pm  afraid  I  shall  be  a  great  trouble  to  Mrs. 
Dale." 

"A  trouble  to  mamma!  Indeed  you  will 
not.  You  shall  be  a  trouble  to  no  one  but  me. 
I  will  have  all  the  trouble  myself,  and  the  labor 
I  dcliglit  in  shall  ])liysic  my  pain." 

Grace  Crawley  could  not  during  the  journey 
be  at  home  and  at  ease  even  with  her  friend 
Lily.  She  was  going  to  a  strange  house  under 
strange  cii'cumstances.  Her  father  had  not  in- 
deed been  tried  and  found  guilty  of  theft,  but 
the  charge  of  theft  had  been  made  against  him, 
and  the  magistrates  before  whom  it  had  been 
made  had  thought  that  the  charge  was  true. 
Grace  knew  that  all  the  local  newspapers  had 
told  the  story,  and  was  of  course  aware  that 
Mrs.  Dale  would  have  heard  it.  Her  own  mind 
was  full  of  it,  and  though  she  dreaded  to  speak 
of  it,  yet  she  could  not  be  silent.  Miss  Dale, 
who  understood  much  of  this,  endeavored  to 
talk  her  friend  into  easiness  ;  but  she  feared  to 
begin  upon  the  one  subject,  and  before  the  drive 
was  over  they  were,  both  of  them,  too  cold  for 
much  conversation.  "There's  mamma,"  said 
Miss  Dale  as  they  drove  up,  turning  out  of  the 
street  of  tlie  village  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Dale's 
house.  "She  always  knows  by  instinct  when 
I  am  coming.  You  must  understand,  now  that 
you  are  among  us,  that  mamma  and  I  are  not 
mother  and  daughter,  but  two  loving  old  ladies, 
living  together  in  peace  and  harmony.  We  do 
have  our  quarrels — whether  the  ciiicken  shall  be 
roast  or  boiled,  but  never  any  thing  beyond  that. 
Mamma,  here  is  Grace,  starved  to  death ;  and 
she  says  if  you  don't  give  her  some  tea  she  will 
go  back  at  once." 

"I  will  give  her  some  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"And  I  am  worse  than  she  is,  because  I've 
been  driving.  It's  all  up  with  Bertram  and  Mr. 
Green  for  the  next  week  at  least.  It  is  freezing 
as  hard  as  it  can  freeze,  and  they  might  as  well 
try  to  hunt  in  Lapland  as  here." 

"They'll  console  themselves  wdth  skating," 
said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"Have  you  ever  observed,  Grace,"  said  Miss 
Dale,  "how  much  amusement  gentlemen  re- 
quire, and  how  imperative  it  is  that  some  otlier 
game  should  be  provided  when  one  game  fails  ?" 

"  Not  particularly,"  said  Grace. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  so.  Now,  with  women,  it  is 
supposed  that  they  can  amuse  themselves  or 
live  without  amusement.  Once  or  twice  in  a 
year,  perhaps,  something   is    done   for    them. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


47 


There  is  an  arrow-shooting  party,  or  a  bail,  or  a 
picnic.  But  the  catering  for  men's  s])ort  is  nev- 
er-ending, and  is  always  paramount  to  every 
thing  else.  And  yet  the  pet  game  of  the  day  nev- 
er goes  off  properly.  In  partridge  time  the  jiar- 
tridges  are  wild,  and  won't  come  to  be  killed. 
In  hunting  time  the  foxes  won't  run  straight — 
the  wretches.  They  show  no  spirit,  and  will 
take  to  ground  to  save  their  brashes.  Then 
comes  a  nipping  frost,  and  skating  is  proclaim- 
ed ;  but  the  ice  is  always  rough,  and  the  wood- 
cocks have  deserted  the  country.  And  as  for 
salmon — when  the  summer  comes  round  I  do 
really  believe  that  they  suffer  a  great  deal  about 
the  salmon.  I'm  sure  they  never  catch  any. 
So  they  go  back  to  their  clubs  and  their  cards, 
and  their  billiards,  and  abuse  their  cooks  and 
blackball  tlicir  friends.  That's  about  it,  mam- 
ma ;  is  it  not  ?" 

"  You  know  more  about  it  than  I  do,  ray  dear." 

"  Because  I  have  to  listen  to  Bertram,  as  you 
never  will  do.  AVe've  got  such  a  Mr.  Green 
down  here,  Grace.  He's  such  a  duck  of  a  man 
— sucii  top-boots  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And 
yet  they  whisper  to  me  that  he  doesn't  ride  al- 
ways to  hounds.  And  to  see  him  play  billiards 
is  beautiful,  only  he  never  can  make  a  stroke. 
I  hope  you  play  billiards,  Grace,  because  uncle 
Christopher  has  just  had  a  new  table  put  up." 

"I  never  saw  a  billiard- table  yet,"  said 
Grace. 

"Then  Mr.  Green  shall  teach  you.  He'll  do 
any  thing  that  you  ask  him.  If  you  don't  ap- 
prove the  color  of  the  ball,  he'll  go  to  London 
to  get  you  another  'one.  Only  you  must  be 
very  careful  about  saying  that  you  like  any 
thing  before  him,  as  he'll  be  sure  to  have  it  for 
you  the  next  day.  Mamma  happened  to  say 
that  she  wanted  a  four-penny  postage-stamp, 
and  he  walked  off  to  Guestwick  to  get  it  for  her 
instantly,  although  it  was  lunch-time." 

"  He  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  Lily,"  said  her 
mother.  "He  Avas  going  to  Guestwick,  and 
was  very  good-natured,  and  brought  me  back  a 
postage-stamp  that  I  wanted." 

"  Of  course  he's  good-natured ;  I  know  that. 
And  there's  my  cousin  Bertram.  He's  Captain , 
Dale,  foa  know.  But  he  prefers  to  be  called 
Mr.  Dale,  because  he  has  left  the  army,  and  has 
set  up  as  junior  squire  of  the  parish.  Uncle 
Christopher  is  the  real  squire ;  only  Bertram 
does  all  the  work.  And  now  you  know  all  about 
us.  I'm  afiaid  you'll  find  us  dull  enough — un- 
less you  can  take  a  fancy  to  Mr.  Green." 

"Docs  Mr.  Green  live  here?"  asked  Grace.  ■ 

"No ;  he  does  not  live  here.  I  never  heard 
of  his  living  any  where.  He  was  something 
once,  but  I  don't  know  what ;  and  I  don't  think 
he's  any  thing  now  in  particular.  But  he's 
Bertram's  friend,  and  like  most  men,  as  ono 
sees  them,  he  never  has  much  to  do.  Does 
Major  Grantly  ever  go  forth  to  fight  his  coun- 
try's battles?"  This  last  question  she  asked  in 
a  low  whisper,  so  that  the  words  did  not  reach 
her  mother.  Grace  blushed  up  to  her  eyes, 
however,  as  she  answered  : 


"I  think  that  Major  Grantly  has  left  the 
army." 

"Wc  shall  get  her  round  in  a  day  or  two, 
mamma,"  said  Lily  Dale  to  her  mother  that 
night.  "  I'm  sure  it  will  be  the  best  thing  to 
force  her  to  talk  of  her  troubles." 

"  I  would  not  use  too  much  force,  my  dear." 

"  Things  are  better  when  they're  talked  about. 
I'm  sure  they  are.  And  it  will  be  good  to  make 
her  accustomed  to  speak  of  Major  Grantly. 
From  what  Mary  Walker  tells  me  he  certainly 
means  it.  And  if  so,  she  should  be  ready  for  it 
when  it  comes." 

"Do  not  make  her  ready  for  what  may  never 
come." 

"No,  mamma;  but  she  is  at  present  such  a 
child  that  she  knows  nothing  of  her  own  pow- 
ers. She  should  be  made  to  understand  that 
it  is  possible  that  even  a  Major  Grantly  may 
think  himself  fortunate  in  being  allowed  to  love 
her. " 

"  I  should  leave  all  that  to  Nature,  if  I  were 
you, "  said  Mrs.  Dale. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DIXNER    AT    FRAMLEY    CODET. 

Lord  Lufton,  as  he  drove  home  to  Framley 
after  the  meeting  of  the  magistrates  at  Silver- 
bridge,  discussed  the  matter  with  his  brother-in- 
law,  Mark  Robarts,  the  clergyman.  Lord  Luf- 
ton  was  driving  a  dog-cart,  and  went  along  the 
road  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour.  "I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is,  Mark,"  he  said,  "that  man 
is  innocent ;  but  if  he  won't  employ  lawyers  at 
his  trial  the  jury  will  find  him  guilty." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  it,"  said 
the  clergyman. 

"Were  you  in  the  room  when  he  protested 
so  vehemently  that  he  didn't  know  where  he  got 
the  money?" 

"I  was  in  the  room  all  the  time." 

"  And  did  you  not  believe  him  when  he  said 
that  ?" 

"Yes— I  think  I  did." 

"Any  body  must  have  believed  him — except 
old  Tempest,  who  never  believes  any  body,  and 
Fothergill,  who  always  suspects  every  body. 
The  truth  is,  that  he  had  found  the  check  and  put 
it  by,  and  did  not  remember  any  thing  about  it." 

"But,  Lufton,  surely  that  would  amount  to 
stealing  it." 

"Yes,  if  it  wasn't  that  he  is  such  a  poor, 
cracked,  crazj'  creature,  with  his  mind  all  abroad. 
I  think  Soames  did  drop  his  book  in  his  house. 
I'm  sure  Soames  would  not  say  so  unless  he  was 
quite  confident.  Somebody  has  picked  it  up, 
and  in  some  way  the  check  has  got  into  Craw- 
ley's hand..  Then  he  has  locked  it  up  and  has 
forgotten  all  about  it ;  and  when  that  butcher 
threatened  him  he  has  put  his  hand  upon  it, 
and  he  has  thought,  or  believed,  that  it  had 
come  from  Soames,  or  from  the  dean,  or  from 
heaven,  if  you  will.     When  a  man  is  so  crazy 


48 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


as  tliat,  you  can't  judge  of  him  as  yon  do  of 
others." 

"  But  a  jury  nnist  judge  of  him  as  it  would  of 
otiiers." 

'•  And  therefore  there  should  he  a  hiwycr  to 
tell  tlic  jury  what  to  do.  Tiiey  should  iiave 
somebody  up  out  of  the  parish  to  show  that  lie 
is  heside  liiniself  half  his  time.  His  wife  would 
he  the  best  i)crson,  only  it  would  be  hard  lines 
on  her." 

"Very  hard.  And  after  all  he  would  only 
escape  by  being  siiown  to  be  mad." 

"And  he  is  mad." 

"  Jlrs.  I'roudie  would  come  n])on  him  in 
such  a  case  as  that,  and  sequester  his  living." 

"And  what  will  ^Irs.  Troudie  do  when  he's 
a  convicted  thief?  yimply  unfrock  him  and 
take  away  his  living  altogether.  Notliing  on 
cartli  should  induce  me  to  find  him  guilty  if  I 
were  on  a  jury." 

"But  you  have  committed  him." 

"  Yes — I've  been  one,  at  least,  in  doing  so. 
I  simply  did  that  whicli  "Walker  told  us  we 
must  do.  A  magistrate  is  not  left  to  himself 
as  a  juryman  is.  I'd  eat  the  biggest  pair  of 
boots  in  Barchester  before  I  found  him  guilty. 
I  say,  IMark,  you  must  talk  it  over  with  the  wo- 
men, and  sec  what  can  be  done  for  them.  Lucy 
tells  me  that  they're  so  poor  that  if  they  have 
bread  to  eat  it's  as  much  as  they  have." 

On  this  evening  Archdeacon  Grantly  and 
his  wife  dined  and  slept  at  Framley  Court,  there 
liaving  been  a  very  long  family  friendship  be- 
tween old  Lady  Lufton  and  the  Grantlys,  and 
Dr.  Thorne  with  his  wife,  from  Chaldicotes, 
also  dined  at  Framley.  There  was  also  tiicrc 
another  clergyman  from  Barchester,  Mr.  Cham- 
pion, one  of  the  prebends  of  the  cathedral. 
There  were  only  three  now  who  had  houses  in 
the  city  since  the  retrenchments  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical commission  had  come  into  full  force. 
And  this  Mr.  Champion  was  dear  to  the  Dow- 
ager Lady  Lufton,  because  he  carried  on  wor- 
thily the  clerical  war  against  the  bishop,  which 
had  raged  in  Barsetshire  ever  since  Dr.  Proudie 
had  come  there — which  war  old  Lady  Lufton, 
good  and  pious  and  charitable  as  she  was,  con- 
sidered that  she  was  bound  to  keep  up,  even  to 
the  knife,  till  Dr.  Proudie  and  all  liis  satellites 
should  have  been  banished  into  outer  darkness. 
As  the  light  of  the  Proudies  still  shone  brightly, 
it  was  probable  that  poor  old  Lady  Lufton  might 
die  before  her  battle  was  accomplished.  She 
often  said  that  it  would  be  so,  hut  when  so  say- 
ing always  expressed  a  wish  that  the  fight  might 
be  carried  on  after  her  death.  "  I  shall  never, 
never  rest  in  my  grave,"  she  had  once  said  to 
the  archdeacon,  "while  that  woman  sits  in 
your  father's  ]>alace."  For  the  archdeacon's 
father  had  been  Bishop  of  Barchester  before  Dr. 
Proudie.  What  mode  of  getting  i;id  of  the 
bishop  or  his  wife  Lady  Lufton  proposed  to 
herself  I  am  unable  to  say ;  but  I  think  she 
lived  in  hopes  that  in  some  way  it  iniglit  be  done. 
If  only  the  bishop  could  have  been  found  to 
have  stolen  a  check  for  twenty  p(nnu!s,  instead 


of  ))Oor  Mr.  Crawley,  Lady  Lufton  would,  I 
think,  have  been  satisfied. 

In  the  course  of  these  battles  Framley  Conri 
would  sometimes  assume  a  clerical  aspect — 
have  a  ]>revailing  hue,  as  it  were,  of  black  coats, 
whicii  was  not  altogether  to  the  taste  of  Lord 
Lufton,  and  as  to  which  ho  would  make  com- 
]ilaint  to  his  wife,  and  to  Mark  Kobarts,  himself 
a  clergyman.  "There's  more  of  this  than  I 
can  stand,"  he'd  say  to  the  latter.  "There's  a 
deuced  deal  more  of  it  than  you  like  yourself,  I 
know." 

"It's  not  for  me  to  like  or  dislike.  It's  a 
great  thing  having  your  mother  in  the  pai'ish." 

"That's  all  very  well;  and  of  course  she'll 
do  as  she  likes.  She  may  ask  whom  she  pleases 
here,  and  I  sha'n't  interfere.  It's  the  same  as 
though  it  was  her  own  house.  But  I  shall  take 
Lucy  to  Lufton."  Now  Lord  Lufton  had  been 
building  his  house  at  Lufton  for  the  last  seven 
years  and  it  was  not  yet  finisiied — or  nearly  fin- 
ished, if  all  that  his  wife  and  mother  said  was 
true.  And  if  they  could  have  their  way  it  nev- 
er would  be  finished.  And  so,  in  order  that 
Lord  Lufton  might  not  be  actually  driven  away 
by  the  turmoils  of  ecclesiastical  contest,  tlic 
younger  Lady  Lufton  would  endeavor  to  moder- 
ate both  the  wrath  and  the  zeal  of  the  elder  one, 
and  would  struggle  against  the  coming  clergy- 
men. On  this  day,  however,  three  sat  at  the 
board  at  Framley,  and  Lady  Lufton,  in  her 
justification  to  her  son,  swore  that  the  invitation 
had  been  given  by  her  daughter-in-law.  "  You 
know,  my  dear,"  the  dowager  said  to  Lord  Luf- 
ton, "something  must  be  done  for  these  i)Oor 
Crawleys;  and  as  tlie  dean  is  away,  Lucy  wants 
to  speak  to  the  archdeacon  about  them." 

"  And  the  archdeacon  could  not  subscribe 
his  ten-pound  note  without  having  Mr.  Cham- 
pion to  back  him  ?" 

"  ]My  dear  Ludovic,  you  do  put  it  in  such  a 
way." 

"Never  mind,  mother.  I've  no  special  dis- 
like to  Champion ;  only  as  you  are  not  paid  five 
thousand  a  year  for  your  trouble,  it  is  ratlicr 
hard  that  you  should  have  to  do  all  the  work 
of  opjjosition  bishop  in  the  diocese." 

It  was  felt  by  them  all — including  Loi^  Luf- 
ton himself,  who  became  so  interested  in  the 
matter  as  to  forgive  the  black  coats  before  the 
evening  was  over — that  this  matter  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's committal  was  very  serious,  and  demanded 
the  full  energies  of  their  ])arty.  It  was  known 
to  them  all  that  the  feeling  at  the  palace  was 
inimical  to  Mr.  Crawley.  "That  she-Beelze- 
bub hates  him  for  his  povert}^  and  because  Ara- 
bin  brought  him  into  the  diocese,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, permitting  himself  to  use  very  strong 
language  in  his  allusion  to  the  bishop's  wife. 
It  must  be  recorded  on  his  behalf  that  he  used 
the  phrase  in  the  presence  only  of  the  gentle- 
men of  the  party.  I  think  he  might  have  whis- 
pered the  word  into  the  ear  of  his  confidential 
friend  old  Lady  Lufton,  and  perhaps  have  given 
no  oflTense ;  but  he  would  not  have  ventured  to 
use  such  words  aloud  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


49 


"You  forget,  archdeacon,"  said  Dr.  Thorne, 
laughing,  "  that  the  she-Beelzebub  is  my  wife's 
particular  friend." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  "said  the  archdeacon.  ' '  Your 
wife  knows  better  than  that.  You  tell  her  what 
I  call  her,  and  if  she  complains  of  tlie  name 
I'll  unsay  it."  It  may  therefore  be  supposed 
that  Dr.  Thorne,  and  Mrs.  Thorne,  and  the 
archdeacon,  knew  each  other  intimately,  and 
understood  each  other's  feelings  on  these  mat- 
ters. 

It  was  quite  true  that  the  palace  party  was 
inimical  to  Mr.  Crawley.  Mr.  Crawley  undoubt- 
edly was  poor,  and  had  not  been  so  submissive 
to  episcopal  authority  as  it  behooves  any  clergy- 
man to  be  whose  loaves  and  fishes  are  scanty. 
He  had  raised  his  back  more  than  once  against 
orders  emanating  from  the  palace  in  a  manner 
that  had  made  the  hairs  on  the  head  of  the  bish- 
op's wife  to  stand  almost  on  end,  and  had  taken 
as  much  upon  himself  as  though  his  living  had 
been  worth  twelve  hundred  a  year.  Mrs.  Prou- 
die,  almost  as  energetic  in  her  language  as  the 
archdeacon,  had  called  liim  a  beggarly  perpetu- 
al curate.  "We  must  have  perpetual  curates, 
my  dear,"  the  bishop  had  said.  "They  should 
know  their  places  then.  But  wliat  can  j-ou  ex- 
pect of  a  creature  from  the  deaneiy  ?  All  that 
ouglit  to  be  altered.  The  dean  should  have  no 
patronage  in  the  diocese.  No  dean  should  have 
any  patronage.  It  is  an  abuse  from  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end.  Dean  Arabin,  if  he  had  any 
conscience,  would  be  doing  the  duty  at  Hoggle- 
stock  himself."  How  the  bishop  strove  to  teach 
his  wife,  with  mildest  Avords,  what  really  ought 
to  be  a  dean's  duty,  and  how  the  wife  rejoined 
by  teaching  her  husband,  not  in  the  mildest 
words,  what  ought  to  be  a  bishop's  duty,  we  will 
not  further  inquire  here.  The  fact  that  such 
dialogues  took  place  at  the  palace  is  recorded 
simply  to  show  that  the  palatial  feeling  in  Bar- 
chester  ran  counter  to  Mr.  Crawley. 

And  this  was  cause  enough,  if  no  other  cause 
existed,  for  partiality  to  Mr.  Crawley  at  Fram- 
ley  Court.  But,  as  has  been  partly  explained, 
there  existed,  if  possible,  even  stronger  ground 
than  this  for  adherence  to  tlie  Crawley  cause. 
The  younger  Lady  Lufton  had  known  the  Craw- 
leys  intimately,  and  the  elder  Lady  Lufton  had 
reckoned  them  among  the  neighboring  clerical 
families  of  iier  acquaintance.  Both  these  la- 
dies were  therefore  stanch  in  tlieir  defense  of 
Mr.  Crawley.  The  archdeacon  himself  had  his 
own  reasons — reasons  which  for  the  present  he 
kept  altogether  wdthin  his  own  bosom — for  wish- 
ing that  !Mr.  Crawley  had  never  entered  the  di- 
ocese. Whether  the  perpetual  curate  should 
or  should  not  be  declared  to  be  a  thief,  it  would 
be  terrible  to  him  to  have  to  call  the  child  of 
that  perpetual  curate  his  daughter-in-law.  But 
not  the  less  on  this  occasion  was  he  true  to  his 
order,  true  to  his  side  in  the  diocese,  true  to 
his  hatred  of  tlie  palace. 

"I  don't  believe  it  for  a  moment."  he  said, 
as  he  took  his  place  on  the  rug  before  tlie  fire 
in  the  drawing-room  when  the  gentlemen  came 


in  from  their  wine.  The  ladies  understood  at 
once  what  it  was  that  he  couldn't  believe.  Mr. 
Crawley  had  for  the  moment  so  usurped  the 
county  that  nobody  thought  of  talking  of  any 
thing  else. 

"How  is  it,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  "that 
Lord  Lufton,  and  my  husband,  and  the  other 
wiseacres  at  Silverbridge,  have  committed  him 
for  trial  ?" 

"Because  we  were  told  to  do  so  by  the  law- 
yer," said  Dr.  Thorne. 

"Ladies  will  never  understand  that  magis- 
trates must  act  in  accordance  with  the  law," 
said  Lord  Lufton. 

"But  you  all  say  he's  not  guilty,"  said  Mrs. 
Robarts. 

"The  fact  is,  that  the  magistrates  can  not 
try  the  question,"  said  the  archdeacon;  "they 
only  hear  the  primary  evidence.  In  this  case 
I  don't  believe  Crawley  would  ever  have  been 
committed  if  he  had  employed  an  attorney  in- 
stead of  speaking  for  himself." 

"Why  didn't  somebody  make  him  have  an 
attorney?"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

"  I  don't  think  any  attorney  in  the  world  could 
have  spoken  for  him  better  than  he  spoke  for 
himself,"  said  Dr.  Thorne. 

"And  yet  you  committed  him,"  said  his  wife. 
"  What  can  we  do  for  him  ?  Can't  we  pay  the 
bail,  and  send  liim  oflP  to  America?" 

"A  jury  will  never  find  him  guilty,"  said 
Lord  Lufton. 

"And  what  is  the  truth  of  it?"  asked  the 
younger  Lady  Lufton. 

Then  the  whole  matter  was  discussed  again, 
and  it  was  settled  among  them  all  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  undoubtedly  ap;  ropriated  the  check 
through  temporary  obliquity  of  judgment — ob- 
liquity of  judgment  and  forgetfulness  as  to  the 
source  from  whence  the  check  had  come  to  him. 
"He  has  picked  it  up  about  the  house,  and  then 
has  thought  that  it  was  his  own,"  said  Lord 
Lufton.  Had  they  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
such  an  appropriation  of  money  had  been  made 
by  one  of  the  clergy  of  the  palace,  by  one  of  the 
Troudeian  party,  they  would  doubtless  have 
been  very  loud  and  very  bitter  as  to  the  iniquity 
of  the  offender.  They  would  have  said  much 
as  to  the  weakness  of  the  bishop  and  the  wick- 
edness of  the  bishop's  wife,  and  would  have  de- 
clared the  appropriator  to  Iiave  been  as  very  a 
thief  as  ever  picked  a  pocket  or  opened  a  till — 
but  they  were  unanimous  in  their  acquittal  of 
INIr.  Crawley.  It  had  not  been  his  intention, 
they  said,  to  be  a  thief,  and  a  man  should  be 
judged  only  by  his  intention.  It  must  now  be 
their  object  to  induce  a  Barchester  jury  to  look 
at  the  matter  in  the  same  light. 

"When  they  come  to  understand  how  the  land 
lies,"  said  the  archdeacon,  "they  will  be  all 
right.  There's  not  a  tradesman  in  the  city 
who  does  not  hate  that  woman  as  though  she 
were — " 

"Archdeacon,"  said  his  wife,  cautioning  him 
to  repress  his  energy. 

"Their  bills  are  all  paid  by  this  new  chajilain 


60 


THE  LAST  CURONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


they've  got,  and  lie  is  made  to  claim  discount 
on  every  log  of  mutton,"  said  the  archdeacon. 
Arguing  from  wliich  fact,  or  from  which  asser- 
tion, he  came  to  tlic  conclusion  that  no  Barches- 
ter  jury  would  find  Mr.  Crawley  guilty. 

But  it  was  agreed  on  all  sides  that  it  would 
not  be  well  to  trust  to  the  unassisted friondshiii  of 
the  Barcliester  tradesmen.  Jlr.  Crawley  must 
be  ])rovided  with  legal  assistance,  and  tiiis  must 
be  furnished  to  him  whether  he  should  be  will- 
ing or  unwilling  to  receive  it.  Tliat  there  would 
be  a  ditliculty  was  acknowledged.  JNIr.  Crawley 
was  known  to  bo  a  man  not  easy  of  persuasion, 
Avith  a  will  of  his  own,  with  a  great  energy  of 
obstinacy  on  jioints  which  he  chose  to  take  up 
as  being  of  importance  to  his  calling,  or  to  his 
own  ju-ofessional  status.  He  had  pleaded  his 
own  cause  before  the  magistrates,  and  it  might 
be  that  he  would  insist  on  doing  the  same  thing 
before  the  judge.  At  last  Mr.  llobarts,  the  cler- 
gyman of  Framley,  was  deputed  from  tiie  knot 
of  Crawleiau  advocates  assembled  in  Lady  Luf- 
ton's  drawing-room  to  undertake  the  duty  of 
seeing  Mr.  Crawley,  and  of  explaining  to  him 
that  his  proper  defense  was  regarded  as  a  matter 
appertaining  to  the  clergy  and  gentry  generally 
of  that  jiart  of  the  country,  and  that  for  the  sake 
of  the  clergy  and  gentry  the  defense  must  of 
course  be  properly  conducted.  In  such  circum- 
stances the  expense  of  the  defense  would  of 
course  be  borne  by  the  clergy  and  gentry  con- 
cerned. It  was  thought  that  Mr.  llobarts  could 
put  the  matter  to  Mr.  Crawley  with  such  a  mixt- 
ure of  the  strength  of  manly  friendship  and  the 
softness  of  clerical  persuasion,  as  to  overcome 
the  recognized  diflSculties  of  the  task. 


CHAPTER  XL 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    IIIS    INIIiniTION. 

Tidings  of  Mr.  Crawley's  fate  reached  the 
palace  at  Barchester  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day 
on  which  the  magistrates  had  committed  him. 
All  such  tidings  travel  very  quickly,  conveyed 
by  imjjerceptible  wires,  and  distributed  by  inde- 
fatigable message  boys  whom  Rumor  seems  to 
supply  for  the  purpose.  Barchester  is  twenty 
miles  from  Silverbridge  by  road,  and  more  than 
forty  by  railway.  I  doubt  whether  any  one  was 
commissioned  to  send  the  news  along  the  actual 
telegraph,  and  yet  Mrs.  Proudie  knew  it  before 
four  o'clock.  But  she  did  not  know  it  quite 
accurately.  "Bishop,"  she  said,  standing  at 
her  husband's  study  door.  "They  have  com- 
mitted that  man  to  jail.  There  was  no  help  for 
them  unless  they  had  forsworn  themselves." 

"Not  forsworn  themselves,  my  dear,"  said 
the  bishop,  striving,  as  was  usual  with  him,  by 
some  meek  and  inellectual  word  to  teach  his  wife 
that  she  was  occasionally  led  by  her  energy  into 
error.  He  never  persisted  in  the  lessons  when  he 
found,  as  was  usual,  that  they  were  taken  amiss. 

' '  I  say  forsworn  themselves ! "  said  Mrs.  Prou- 
die ;  "and  now  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  This 
is  Thui'sday,  and  of  course  the  man  must  not  be 


allowed  to  desecrate  the  church  of  Hogglestock 
by  performing  the  Sunday  services." 

"If  he  has  been  committed,  my  dear,  and  is 
in  prison — " 

"I  said  nothing  about  prison,  bishop." 

"  Jail,  my  dear." 

"I  s.ay  they  have  committed  him  to  jail. 
So  my  informant  tells  me.  But  of  course  all 
the  Plumstcad  and  Framley  set  will  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  him  out,  so  that  he  may  be 
there  as  a  disgrace  to  the  diocese.  I  wonder 
how  the  dean  will  feel  when  he  hears  of  it.  I 
do,  indeed !  For  the  dean,  though  he  is  an 
idle,  useless  man,  with  no  church  principles, 
and  no  real  piety,  still  he  has  a  conscience.  I 
think  he  has  a  conscience." 

"I'm  sure  he  has,  my  dear." 

"  Well — let  us  ho])e  so.  And  if  he  has  a  con- 
science, what  must  be  his  feelings  when  he 
hears  that  this  creature  whom  he  brought  into 
the  diocese  has  been  committed  to  jail  along 
with  common  felons?" 

"Not  with  felons,  my  dear ;  at  least,  I  should 
think  not." 

"I  say  with  common  felons!  A  downright 
robbery  of  twenty  pounds,  just  as  though  he 
had  broken  into  the  bank!  And  so  he  did, 
with  sly  artifice,  which  is  worse  in  such  hands 
than  a  crow-bar.  And  now  what  are  we  to  do  ? 
Here  is  Thursday,  and  something  must  be  done 
before  Sunday  for  the  souls  of  those  poor  be- 
nighted creatures  at  Hogglestock."  Mrs.  Prou- 
die was  ready  for  the  battle,  and  was  even  now 
sniffing  the  blood  afar  off".  "I  believe  it's  a 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds  a  year,"  she  said, 
before  the  bishop  had  collected  his  thoughts  suf- 
ficiently for  a  reply. 

"  I  think  we  must  find  out,  first  of  all,  wheth- 
er he  is  really  to  be  shut  up  in  prison,"  said  the 
bishop. 

"And  suppose  he  is  not  to  be  shut  up.  Sup- 
pose they  have  been  weak  or  untrue  to  their 
duty — and  from  what  we  know  of  the  magis- 
trates of  Barsetshire  there  is  too  much  reason 
to  suppose  that  they  will  have  been  so ;  suppose 
they  have  let  him  out,  is  he  to  go  about  like  a 
roaring  lion  among  tlie  souls  of  the  people  ?" 

The  bisliop  shook  in  his  shoes.  When  Mrs. 
Proudie  began  to  talk  of  the  souls  of  the  people 
he  always  shook  in  his  shoes.  She  had  an  elo- 
quent way  of  raising  her  voice  over  the  word 
souls  that  was  qualified  to  make  any  ordinary 
man  shake  in  his  shoes.  The  bishop  was  a  con- 
scientious man,  and  well  knew  that  poor  Mr. 
Crawley,  even  though  he  might  have  become  a 
thief  under  terrible  temptation,  would  not  roar 
at  Hogglestock  to  the  injury  of  any  man's  soul. 
He  was  aware  that  this  poor  clergyman  had  done 
his  duty  laboriously  and  efficiently,  and  he  was 
also  aware  that  though  he  might  have  been 
committed  by  the  magistrates,  and  then  let  out 
upon  bail,  he  should  not  be  regarded  now,  in 
these  days  before  his  trial,  as  a  convicted  thief. 
But  to  explain  all  this  to  Mrs.  Proudie  was  be- 
yond his  power.  He  knew  well  that  she  would 
not  hear  a  word  in  mitigation  of  Mr.  Crawley's 


I 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


51 


prcsumecl  offense.  IMr.  Crawley  belonged  to 
tlie  other  party,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  was  a  thor- 
ough-going partisan.  I  know  a  man — an  ex- 
cellent fellow,  who,  being  himself  a  strong  poli- 
tician, constantly  expresses  a  belief  that  all  poli- 
ticians opposed  to  him  are  thieves,  child-mur- 
derers, parricides,  lovers  of  incest,  demons  npon 
the  earth.  He  is  a  strong  partisan,  but  not,  I 
think,  so  strong  as  Mrs.  Proudie.  He  says  that 
he  believes  all  evil  of  his  opponents  ;  but  she  re- 
ally believed  the  evil.  The  archdeacon  had 
called  Mrs.  Proudie  a  she-Beelzebub;  but  that 
was  a  simple  ebullition  of  mortal  hatred.  He 
believed  her  to  be  simply  a  vulgar,  interfering, 
brazen-faced  virago.  Mrs.  Proudie  in  truth  be- 
lieved that  the  archdeacon  was  an  actual  ema- 
nation from  Satan,  sent  to  those  parts  to  devour 
souls — as  slie  would  call  it — and  that  she  her- 
self was  an  emanation  of  another  sort,  sent  fi'om 
another  source  expressly  to  Barchester  to  pre- 
vent such  devouring,  as  for  as  it  might  possibly 
be  prevented  by  a  mortal  agency.  The  bishop 
knew  it  all — understood  it  all.  He  regarded 
the  archdeacon  as  a  clergyman  belonging  to  a 
party  opposed  to  his  party,  and  he  disliked  the 
man.  He  knew  that  from  his  first  coming  into 
the  diocese  he  had  been  encountered  with  enmity 
by  the  archdeacon  and  the  archdeacon's  friends. 
If  left  to  himself  he  could  feel  and  to  a  certain 
extent  could  resent  such  enmity.  But  he  had 
no  faith  in  his  wife's  doctrine  of  emanations. 
He  had  no  faith  in  many  things  which  she  be- 
lieved religiously — and  yet  what  could  he  do  ? 
If  he  attempted  to  explain,  she  would  stop  him 
before  he  had  got  through  the  first  half  of  his 
first  sentence. 

"If  he  is  out  on  bail — "  commenced  the  bishop. 

"  Of  course  he  will  be  out  on  bail." 

"Then  I  think  he  should  feel—" 

"Feel!  such  men  never  feel !  What  feeling 
can  one  expect  from  a  convicted  thief?" 

"Not  convicted  as  yet,  my  dear,"  said  the 
bishop. 

"A  convicted  thief!"  repeated  j\Irs.  Proudie  ; 
and  she  vociferated  tiie  words  in  such  a  tone 
that  the  bishop  resolved  that  he  would  for  the 
future  let  the  word  convicted  pass  without  no- 
tice. After  all  she  was  only  using  the  phrase 
in  a  peculiar  sense  given  to  it  by  herself.  • 

"  It  won't  be  proper,  certainly,  that  he  should 
do  the  services,"  suggested  the  bishop. 

"  Proper !  it  would  be  a  scandal  to  the  whole 
diocese.  How  could  he  raise  his  head  as  he 
pronounced  the  eighth  commandment?  That 
must  be  at  least  prevented." 

Tlie  bishop,  who  was  seated,  fretted  himself  in 
his  chair,  moving  about  with  little  movements. 
He  knew  that  there  was  a  misery  coming  upon 
him  ;  and,  as  far  as  hecould  see,  it  might  become 
a  great  misery — a  huge  blistering  sore  upon  him. 
When  miseries  came  to  him,  as  they  did  not 
unfrequently,  he  would  uncoijsciously  endeavor 
to  fathom  them  and  weigh  them,  and  then, 
with  some  gallantry,  resolve  to  bear  them,  if  he 
could  find  that  their  depth  and  weight  were  not 
too  great  for  his  powers  of  endurance.    He  would 


let  the  cold  wind  whistle  by  him,  putting  up  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  and  would  encounter  the  win- 
ter weather  without  complaint.  And  he  would 
be  patient  under  the  hot  sun,  knowing  well  that 
tranquillity  is  best  for  those  who  have  to  bear 
tropical  heat.  But  when  the  storm  threatened 
to  knock  him  ofl:'  his  legs,  when  the  earth  be- 
neath him  became  too  hot  for  his  poor  tender 
feet — what  could  he  do  then  ?  There  had  been 
with  him  such  periods  of  misery,  during  which 
he  had  wailed  inwardly  and  had  confessed  to 
himself  that  the  wife  of  his  bosom  was  too  much 
for  him.  Now  the  storm  seemed  to  be  coming 
very  roughly.  It  would  be  demanded  of  him 
that  he  should  exercise  certain  episcopal  author- 
ity which  he  knew  did  not  belong  to  him.  Now, 
episcopal  authority  admits  of  being  stretched  or 
contracted  according  to  the  character  of  the 
bishop  who  uses  it.  It  is  not  always  easy  for  a 
bishop  himself  to  know  what  he  may  do,  and 
what  he  may  not  do.  He  may  certainly  give 
advice  to  any  clergyman  in  his  diocese,  and  he 
may  give  it  in  such  form  that  it  will  have  in  it 
something  of  authority.  Such  advice  coming 
from  a  dominant  bishop  to  a  clergyman  with  a 
submissive  mind  has  in  it  very  much  of  authority. 
But  Bishop  Proudie  knew  that  Mr.  Crawley  was 
not  a  clergyman  with  a  submissive  mind,  and 
he  feared  that  he  himself,  as  regarded  from  Mr. 
Crawley's  point  of  view,  was  not  a  dominant 
bishop.  And  yet  he  could  only  act  by  advice. 
"I  will  write  to  him,"  said  the  bishop,  "and 
will  explain  to  him  that  as  he  is  circumstanced 
he  should  not  appear  in  the  reading-desk." 

"Of  course  he  must  not  appear  in  tiie  read- 
ing-desk. That  scandal  must  at  any  rate  be  in- 
hibited." Now  the  bishop  did  not  at  all  like  the 
use  of  the  woi'd  inhibited,  understanding  well 
that  Mrs.  Proudie  intended  it  to  be  understood 
as  implying  some  episcopal  command  against 
which  there  should  be  no  appeal — but  he  let  it 
pass. 

"I  will  write  to  him,  my  dear,  to-night." 

"And  Mr.  Thumble  can  go  over  with  the  let- 
ter the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"Will  not  the  post  be  better?" 

"No,  bishop;  certainh'  not." 

"  He  would  get  it  sooner,  if  I  write  to-night, 
my  dear." 

"In  either  case  he  will  get  it  to-morrow 
morning.  An  hour  or  two  will  not  signify,  and 
if  Mr.  Thumble  takes  it  himself  we  shall  know 
how  it  is  received.  It  will  be  well  that  Thumble 
should  be  there  in  person,  as  he  will  want  to  look 
for  lodgings  in  the  parish." 

"But,  my  dear — " 

"Well,  bishop?" 

"About  lodgings?  I  hardly  think  that  Mr. 
Thumble,  if  we  decide  that  Mr.  Thumble  shall 
undertake  the  duty — " 

"  We  have  decided  that  Mr.  Thumble  should 
undertake  the  duty.     That  is  decided." 

"But  I  do  not  think  he  should  trouble  him- 
self to  look  for  lodgings  at  Hogglestock.  He  can 
go  over  on  the  Sundays." 

"And  who  is  to  do  the  parish  work  ?    Would 


62 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


'a  convicted   TUIEf!"    repeated  MK8.    I'ROUDIE. 


yon  liave  that  man,  a  convicted  tliicf,  to  look 
after  the  schools,  and  visit  the  sick,  and  perhaps 
attend  the  dying?" 

"There  will  be  a  great  difficulty  ;  there  will 
indeed,"  said  the  bishop,  becoming  very  nnliap- 
py,  and  feeling  that  he  was  driven  by  circum- 
stances either  to  assert  his  own  knowledge  or 
teach  his  wife  something  of  the  law  with  refer- 
ence to  liis  position  as  a  bishop.  "AVho  is  to 
pay  Mr.  Thumble?" 

"  The  income  of  the  parish  must  be  seques- 


trated, and  he  must  be  paid  out  of  that.  Of 
course  he  must  have  the  income  while  he  does 
the  work." 

"But,  my  dear,  I  can  not  sequestrate  the 
man's  income." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  bishop.  If  the  bisliop 
can  not  sequestrate,  who  can?  But  you  are  al- 
ways timid  in  exercising  the  authority  ]nit  into 
your  hands  for  wise  purposes.  Not  sequestrate 
tlie  income  of  a  man  who  has  been  proved  to  be 
a  tjiief !     You  leave  tliat  to  us,  and  we  will  man- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


age  it."    Tlie  "us"  here  named  comprised  Mrs. 
Troudie  and  the  bishop's  managing  cliaphiin. 

Then  the  bishop  was  left  alone  for  an  hour  to 
write  the  letter  which  Mr.  Thunible  was  to  car- 
ry over  to  Mr.  Crawley — and  after  a  while  he 
did  write  it.  Before  he  commenced  tlie  task, 
however,  he  sat  for  some  moments  in  liis  arm- 
chair close  by  the  fireside,  asking  himself  wheth- 
er it  might  not  be  possible  for  him  to  overcome 
his  enemy  in  this  matter.  How  would  it  go 
with  him  suppose  he  were  to  leave  the  letter  un- 
written, and  send  in  a  message  by  his  chaplain 
to  Mrs.  Proudie,  saying  that  as  Mr.  Crawley 
was  out  on  bail  the  parish  might  be  left  for  the 
present  without  episcopal  interference?  She 
could  not  make  him  interfere.  She  could  not 
force  him  to  write  the  letter.  So,  at  least,  he 
said  to  himself.  But  as  he  said  it  he  almost 
thought  that  slie  could  do  these  things.  In  the 
last  thirty  yeai-s  or  more  she  had  ever  contrived 
by  some  power  latent  in  her  to  have  her  will  ef- 
fected. But  what  would  happen  if  now,  even 
now,  he  were  to  rebel  ?  That  he  would  person- 
ally become  very  uncomfortable  he  was  well 
aware,  but  he  thought  ihat  he  could  bear  that. 
The  food  would  become  bad — mere  ashes  be- 
tween his  teeth,  the  daily  modicum  of  wine 
would  lose  its  flavor,  the  cliiraneys  would  all 
smoke,  the  wind  would  come  from  the  east,  and 
the  servants  would  not  answer  the  bell.  Little 
miseries  of  that  kind  would  crowd  upon  him. 
He  had  arrived  at  a  time  of  life  in  which  such 
miseries  make  such  men  very  miserable ;  but 
yet  he  thought  that  he  could  endure  ihem.  And 
what  other  wretchedness  would  come  to  him  ? 
She  would  scold  him — fiightfully,  loudly,  scorn- 
fully, and,  worse  than  all,  continually.  But  of 
this  he  had  so  much  habitually  that  any  thing 
added  might  be  borne  also — if  only  he  could  be 
sure  that  the  scoldings  should  go  on  in  private, 
that  the  world  of  the  palace  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  hear  the  revilings  to  which  he  would 
be  subjected.  But  to  be  scolded  publicly  was 
the  great  evil  which  he  dreaded  beyond  all  evils. 
He  was  well  aware  that  the  palace  would  know 
his  misfortune,  that  it  was  known,  and  freely 
discussed  by  all,  from  the  examining  chaplain 
down  to  the  palace  boot-boy — nay,  that  it  was 
known  to  all  the  diocese ;  but  yet  he  could  smile 
upon  those  around  him,  and  look  as  though  he 
held  his  own  like  other  men — unless  when  open 
violence  was  displayed.  But  when  that  voice 
■was  heard  aloud  along  the  corridors  of  the  pal- 
ace, and  when  he  was  summoned  imperiously  by 
the  woman,  calling  for  her  bishop,  so  that  all 
Barchester  heard  it,  and  when  he  was  compelled 
to  creep  forth  from  his  study,  at  the  sound  of 
that  summons,  with  distressed  face,  and  shaking 
hands,  and  short,  hurrying  steps — a  being  to  be 
pitied  even  by  a  deacon — not  venturing  to  as- 
sume an  air  of  masterdom  should  he  chance  to 
meet  a  house-maid  on  the  stairs — tlien,  at  such 
moments  as  that,  he  would  feel  that  any  sub- 
mission was  better  than  the  misery  whicli  ho 
suffered.  And  he  well  knew  that  should  lie  now 
rebel  the  whole  house  would  be  in  a  turmoil. 


He  would  be  bishoped  here  and  bishoped  there, 
before  the  eyes  of  all  palatial  men  and  women, 
till  life  would  be  a  burden  to  him.  So  he  got  up 
from  his  seat  over  the  fire,  and  went  to  liis  desk 
and  wrote  the  letter.     The  letter  was  as  follows : 

"The  Pai.aoe,  Baecuestkk,  —  Deceviher,  ISO-. 

"Revkrend  Sm" — he  left  out  the  dear,  be- 
cause he  knew  that  if  he  inserted  it  he  would 
be  compelled  to  write  the  letter  over  again — 
"I  have  heard  to-day  with  the  greatest  trouble 
of  spirit,  that  you  have  been  taken  before  a 
bench  of  magistrates  assembled  at  Silverbridge, 
having  been  previously  arrested  by  the  police 
in  your  j)arsouage  house  at  Ilogglestock,  and 
that  the  magistrates  of  Silverbridge  have  com- 
mitted you  to  take  your  trial  at  the  next  assizes 
at  Barchester,  on  a  charge  of  theft. 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  ])rcjudgc  the  case. 
You  will  understand,  reverend  Sir,  that  I  ex- 
press no  opinion  whatever  as  to  your  guilt  or 
innocence  in  this  matter.  If  you  have  been 
guilty,  may  the  Lord  give  you  grace  to  repent 
of  your  great  sin,  and  to  make  such  amends  as 
may  come  from  immediate  acknowledgment  and 
confession  !  If  you  are  innocent,  may  He  protect 
you,  and  make  your  innocence  to  shine  before 
all  men  !  In  either  case,  may  the  Lord  be  with 
you  and  keep  your  feet  from  further  stumbling  ! 

"But  I  write  to  you  now  as  your  bishoiJ,  to 
explain  to  you  that,  circumstanced  as  you  are, 
you  can  not  with  decency  perform  the  church 
services  of  your  parish.  I  have  that  confidence 
in  you  that  I  doubt  not  you  will  agree  with  me 
in  this,  and  will  be  grateful  to  me  for  relieving 
you  so  far  from  the  immediate  perplexities  of 
your  position.  I  have,  therefore,  ajipointcd  the 
Rev.  Caleb  Thumble  to  perform  tlie  duties  of  in- 
cumbent of  Ilogglestock  till  such  time  as  a  jury 
shall  have  decided  upon  your  case  at  Barches- 
ter; and  in  order  tliat  you  may  at  once  become 
acquainted  with  jNIr.  Thumble,  as  will  be  most 
convenient  that  you  should  do,  I  will  commis- 
sion him  to  deliver  this  letter  into  your  hand 
personally  to-morrow,  trusting  that  you  will  re- 
ceive him  with  that  brotherly  spirit  in  which  he 
is  sent  upon  this  painful  mission. 

"Touching  the  remuneration  to  whieli  Mr. 
Thumble  will  become  entitled  for  his  tempora- 
ry ministrations  in  the  parish  of  Ilogglestock,  I 
do  not  at  present  lay  down  any  strict  injunction. 
He  must,  at  any  rate,  be  ]iaid  at  a  rate  not  less 
than  that  ordinarily  afforded  for  a  curate. 

"I  will  once  again  express  my  fervent  hope 
that  the  Lord  may  bring  you  to  see  the  true 
state  of  your  own  soul,  and  that  he  may  fill  you 
with  the  grace  of  repentance,  so  that  the  bitter 
waters  of  the  present  hour  may  not  pass  over 
your  head  and  destroy  you ! 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"  Reverend  Sir, 
"Your  faithful  servant  in  Ciirist, 

"T.  Baknum."* 

"  naronum  C:istnim  liavini;  been  the  old  Roman  name 
from  whicli  tlie  modern  Harcliester  is  derived,  the  bishopa 
of  the  diocese  have  always  signed  theraselves  Barnum. 


54 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


The  bishop  had  hardly  finislicd  his  letter 
when  Mrs.  I'roudic  returned  to  the  study,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Rev.  Caleb  Thumblc.  Mr.  Thum- 
ble  was  a  little  man,  about  forty  years  of  age, 
who  had  a  wife  and  children  living  in  Bnrehcs- 
tcr,  and  who  existed  on  such  chance  clerical 
crumbs  as  might  fall  from  the  tabic  of  the  bish- 
ojt's  jiatronagc.  Peojjle  in  Barchestcr  said  that 
Mrs.  Tiuimble  was  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  I'rondie's; 
but  as  Mrs.  I'roudic  stoutly  denied  the  connec- 
tion, it  may  be  sujjposed  that  the  ])coi)lc  of  Bar- 
chestcr were  wrong.  And,  had  Mr.  Thumble's 
wife  in  truth  Iicen  a  cousin,  Mrs.  Troudie  would 
surely  have  j)rovidcd  for  him  during  the  many 
years  in  which  the  diocese  had  been  in  her 
hands.  No  such  provision  had  been  made,  and 
Mr.  Thumblc,  who  had  now  been  living  in  the 
diocese  for  three  years,  had  received  nothing 
else  from  the  bisiiop  than  such  chance  employ- 
ment as  this  which  he  was  now  to  undertake  at 
Hogglestock.  He  was  a  humble,  mild-voiced 
man  when  within  the  palace  precincts,  and  had 
so  far  succeeded  in  making  his  way  among  his 
brethren  in  the  cathedral  city  as  to  be  employed 
not  unfrequently  for  absent  minor  canons  in 
chanting  the  week-day  services,  being  remuner- 
ated for  his  work  at  the  rate  of  about  two  shil- 
lings and  sixpence  a  service. 

The  bisliop  handed  liis  letter  to  his  wife,  ob- 
serving in  an  oft-hand  kind  of  way  that  she 
might  as  will  sec  what  he  said.  "Of  course  I 
shall  read  it,"  said  Mrs.  Froudie.  And  the 
bishop  winced  visibly,  because  Mr.  Thumble  was 
present.  "Quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Froudie, 
"quite  right  to  let  him  know  that  you  knew 
that  he  had  been  arrested — actually  arrested  by 
the  police." 

'*  I  thought  it  pi-opcr  to  mention  that,  be- 
cause of  the  scandal,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Oh,  it  has  been  terrible  in  the  city,"  said 
Mr.  Thumble. 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  Mrs.  Frou- 
die. "Never  mind  that  at  present."  Tlien 
she  continued  to  read  the  letter.  "What's 
this  ?  Confession !  That  must  come  out,  bish- 
op. It  will  never  do  that  you  should  recom- 
mend confession  to  any  body,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  But,  my  dear — " 

"It  must  come  out,  bishop." 

"  My  lord  has  not  meant  auricular  confes- 
sion," suggested  Mr.  Thumble.  Then  Mrs.  Frou- 
die turned  round  and  looked  at  Mr.  Thumble, 
and  jNIr.  Thumble  nearly  sank  amidst  the  tables 
and  chairs.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Frou- 
die," he  said.      "I  didn't  mean  to  intrude." 

"The  word  must  come  out,  bishop,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Froudie.  "  There  should  be  no  stumbling- 
blocks  prepared  for  feet  that  are  only  too  ready 
to  fall."     And  the  word  did  come  out. 

"Now,  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  the  lady,  as  she 
gave  the  letter  to  her  satellite,  "the  bishop  and 
I  wish  you  to  be  at  Hogglestock  early  to-mor- 
row. You  should  be  there  not  later  than  ten, 
certainly."  Then  she  paused  until  Mr.  Thum- 
blc had  given  the  required  promise.     "And  we 


request  that  yon  will  be  very  firm  in  the  mission 
which  is  confided  to  you — a  mission  wliich,  as 
of  course  you  sec,  is  of  a  very  delicate  and  im- 
portant nature.     You  must  be  firm." 

"I  will  endeavor,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"The  bishop  and  I  both  feel  that  this  most 
unfortunate  man  must  not  under  any  circum- 
stances be  allowed  to  perform  the  services  of  the 
Church  while  this  charge  is  hanging  over  him — 
a  charge  as  to  the  truth  of  Avhich  no  sane  man 
can  entertain  a  doubt." 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Mre.  Froudie,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble. 

"Tlic  bishop  and  I  therefore  are  most  anx- 
ious that  you  shoulil  make  Mr.  Crawley  under- 
stand at  once — at  once,"  and  the  lady,  as  she 
spoke,  lifted  up  her  left  hand  with  an  eloquent 
violence  which  had  its  effect  upon  Mr.  Thumble, 
"that  he  is  inhibited" — the  bishop  shook  in  his 
shoes — "  inhibited  from  the  performance  of  any 
of  his  sacred  duties."  Thereupon  Mr.  Thum- 
ble promised  obedience  and  went  his  way. 


CHAFTER  XII. 

MR.    CRAAVLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY. 

Matters  went  very  badly  indeed  in  the  par- 
sonage-house at  Hogglestock.  On  the  Friday 
morning,  the  morning  of  the  day  after  his  com- 
mittal, Mr.  Crawley  got  up  very  early,  long  be- 
fore the  daylight,  and  dressing  himself  in  the 
dark,  groped  his  way  down  stairs.  His  wife 
having  vainly  striven  to  persuade  him  to  remain 
where  he  was,  followed  him  into  the  cold  room 
below  with  a  lighted  candle.  She  found  him 
standing  with  his  hat  on  and  with  his  old  cloak, 
as  though  he  were  prepared  to  go  out.  "Why 
do  you  do  this?"  she  said.  "You  will  make 
yourself  ill  with  the  cold  and  the  night  air  ;  and 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


55 


then  you,  and  I  too,  will  bp  worse  than  we  now 
arc." 

"We  can  not  be  worse.  Yoit  can  not  be 
worse,  and  for  me  it  docs  not  signify.  Let  me 
pass." 

"I  will  not  let  you  pass,  Josiah.  Be  a  man 
and  bear  it.  Ask  God  for  strength,  instead  of 
seeking  it  in  an  over-indulgence  of  your  own 
sorrow." 

"Indulgence!" 

"Yes,  love;  indulgence.  It  is  indulgence. 
You  will  allow  your  mind  to  dwell  on  nothing 
for  a  moment  but  your  own  wrongs." 

"What  else  have  I  that  I  can  think  of?  Is 
not  all  the  world  against  me?" 

"  Am  I  against  you  ?" 

"  Sometimes  I  think  you  are.  When  you 
accuse  me  of  self-indulgence  you  are  against 
me — me,  who  for  myself  have  desired  nothing 
but  to  be  allowed  to  do  my  duty,  and  to  have 
bread  enough  to  keep  me  alive,  and  clothes 
enough  to  make  me  decent." 

"  Is  it  not  self-indulgence,  this  giving  way  to 
grief?  Who  would  know  so  well  as  you  how 
to  teach  the  lesson  of  endurance  to  others  ? 
Come,  love.  Lay  down  your  hat.  It  can  not 
be  fitting  that  you  should  go  out  into  the  wet 
and  cold  of  the  raw  morning." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  but  as  she  raised 
her  hand  to  take  his  cloak  from  him  he  drew 
back  from  her,  and  would  not  permit  it.  "  I 
shall  find  those  up  whom  I  want  to  see,"  he 
said.  "I  must  visit  my  flock,  and  I  dare  not 
go  through  the  parish  by  daylight  lest  they  hoot 
after  me  as  a  thief." 

' '  Not  one  in  Hogglestock  would  say  a  word 
to  insult  you." 

"Would  they  not  ?  The  very  children  in  the 
school  whisper  at  me.  Let  me  pass,  I  say.  It 
has  not  as  yet  come  to  that,  that  I  should  be 
stopped  in  my  egress  and  ingress.  They  have 
— bailed  me ;  and  wliile  their  bail  lasts  I  may 
go  where  I  will." 

"Oh,  Josiah,  what  words  to  me!  Have  I 
ever  stopped  your  liberty  ?  Would  I  not  give 
my  life  to  secure  it?" 

"  Let  me  go,  then,  now.  I  tell  you  that  I 
have  business  in  hand."- 

"  But  I  will  go  with  you.  I  will  be  ready 
in  an  instant." 

"You  go  !  Why  should  you  go  ?  Are  there 
not  the  children  for  you  to  mind?" 

"There  is  only  Jane." 

"  Stay  with  her,  then.  Why  should  you  go 
about  the  parish?"  She  still  held  him  by  the 
cloak,  and  looked  anxiously  up  into  his  face. 
"Woman,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "what 
is  it  that  you  dread?  I  command  you  to  tell 
me  what  is  it  that  you  fear?"  He  had  now 
taken  hold  of  her  by  the  shoulder,  slightly  thrust- 
ing lier  from  him,  so  that  he  might  see  her  face 
by  the  dim  light  of  the  single  candle.  "  Speak, 
I  say.      What  is  that  you  tliink  that  I  shall  do  ?" 

"  Dearest,  I  know  that  you  will  be  better  at 
home,  better  with  me,  than  you  can  be  on  such 
,a  morning  as  this  out  in  the  cold,  damp  air," 


"And  is  that  all ?"  He  looked  hard  at  her, 
while  she  returned  his  gaze  with  beseeching, 
loving  eyes.  "  Is  there  nothing  behind,  that 
you  will  not  tell  me?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment  before  she  replied. 
She  had  never  lied  to  him.  .She  could  not  lie 
to  him.  "I  wish  you  knew  my  heart  toward 
you,"  she  said,  "with  all  and  every  thing  in  it." 

"I  know  your  heart  well,  but  I  want  to  know 
your  mind.  Why  would  you  persuade  me  not 
to  go  out  among  my  poor?" 

"Because  it  will  be  bad  for  you  to  be  out 
alone  in  the  dark  lanes,  in  the  mud  and  wet, 
thinking  of  your  sorrow.  You  will  brood  over 
it  till  you  will  lose  your  senses  through  the  in- 
tensity of  your  grief.  You  will  stand  out  in  the 
cold  air,  forgetful  of  every  thing  around  you,  till 
your  limbs  will  be  numbed,  and  your  blood 
chilled — " 

"And  then—?" 

"Oh,  Josiah,  do  not  hold  me  like  that,  and 
look  at  me  so  angrily." 

"And  even  then  I  will  bear  my  burden  till 
the  Lord  in  his  mercy  shall  see  fit  to  relieve  me. 
Even  then  I  will  endure,  though  a  bare  bodkin 
or  a  leaf  of  hemlock  would  put  an  end  to  it.  Let 
me  pass  on  ;  you  need  fear  nothing." 

She  did  let  him  pass  without  another  word, 
and  he  went  out  of  the  house,  shutting  the  door 
after  him  noiselessly,  and  closing  the  wicket- 
gate  of  the  garden.  For  a  while  she  sat  herself 
down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  tried  to  make 
up  her  mind  how  she  might  best  treat  him  in  his 
present  state  of  mind.  As  regarded  the  present 
morning  her  heart  was  at  ease.  She  knew  that 
he  would  do  now  nothing  of  that  which  she  had 
apprehended.  She  could  trust  him  not  to  be 
false  in  his  word  to  her,  though  she  could  not 
before  have  trusted  him  not  to  commit  so  much 
heavier  a  sin.  If  he  would  really  employ  him- 
self from  morning  till  night  among  the  poor  he 
would  be  better  so — his  trouble  would  be  easier 
of  endurance- — than  with  any  other  employment 
which  he  could  adopt.  What  she  most  dreaded 
was  that  he  should  sit  idle  over  the  fire  and  do 
nothing.  When  he  was  so  seated  she  could 
read  his  mind  as  though  it  was  open  to  her  as 
a  book.  She  had  been  quite  right  when  she 
had  accused  him  of  over-indulgence  in  his  grief. 
He  did  give  way  to  it  till  it  became  a  luxury  to 
him — a  luxury  which  she  would  not  have  had 
the  heart  to  deny  him  had  she  not  felt  it  to  be 
of  all  luxuries  the  most  pernicious.  During 
these  long  hours,  in  which  he  would  sit  speech- 
less, doing  nothing,  he  was  telling  himself  from 
minute  to  minute  that  of  all  God's  creatures  he 
was  the  most  heavily  afflicted,  and  was  reveling 
in  the  sense  of  the  injustice  done  to  him.  He 
was  recalling  all  the  facts  of  his  life,  his  edu- 
cation, which  had  been  costly,  and,  as  regard- 
ed knowledge,  successful ;  his  vocation  to  the 
church,  when  in  his  youth  he  had  determined 
to  devote  himself  to  the  service  of  liis  Saviour, 
disregarding  promotion  or  the  fixvor  of  men  ;  the 
short,  sweet  days  of  his  early  love,  in  which  he 
had  devoted  himself  again — thinking  nothing  of 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


self,  but  every  tiling  of  her;  his  diligent  work- 
ing, in  whii-h  he  had  ever  done  his  very  utmost 
for  the  parish  in  which  he  was  jilaccd,  and  al- 
ways his  best  for  the  ])oorcst ;  the  success  of 
other  men  who  had  been  his  compeers,  and,  as 
lie  too  often  told  himself,  intellectually  his  in- 
feriors ;  then  of  his  children,  who  had  been  car- 
ried ofl"  from  liis  love  to  the  church-yard — over 
whose  graves  he  himself  had  stood,  reading  out 
the  pathetic  words  of  the  funeral  service  with 
uiisworviiig  voice  and  a  bleeding  heart;  and 
then  of  his  children  still  living,  who  loved  flieir 
mother  so  much  better  tlian  tliey  loved  him. 
And  he  would  recall  all  the  circumstances  of 
his  jioverty — how  he  had  been  driven  to  accept 
alms,  to  lly  from  creditor*,  to  hide  himself,  to 
sec  his  chairs  and  tables  seized  before  tlic  eyes 
of  those  over  whom  he  had  been  set  as  their 
spiritual  pastor.  And  in  it  all,  I  think,  there 
was  nothing  so  bitter  to  the  man  as  the  dero- 
gation from  tlic  spiritual  grandeur  of  his  posi- 
tion as  j)riest  among  men,  which  came  as  one 
necessary  result  from  his  poverty.  St.  Paul 
could  go  forth  without  money  in  his  ])urse  or 
shoes  to  his  feet  or  two  suits  to  his  back,  and 
liis  poverty  never  stood  in  the  way  of  his  preach- 
ing, or  hindered  the  veneration  of  the  faithful. 
St.  Paul,  indeed,  was  called  upon  to  bear  stripes, 
was  flung  into  prison,  encountered  terrible  dan- 
gers. Eut  Mr.  Crawley — so  he  told  himself — 
could  liavc  encountered  all  that  without  flinch- 
ing. The  stripes  and  scorn  of  the  unfaithful 
would  have  been  nothing  to  him,  if  only  the 
faithful  would  have  believed  in  him,  poor  as  he 
was,  as  they  would  have  believed  in  him  had  he 
been  rich  !  Even  they  whom  he  had  most  loved 
treated  him  almost  with  derision,  bccanse  he  was 
now  different  from  them.  Dean  Arabin  had 
laughed  at  him  because  he  had  persisted  in  walk- 
ing ten  miles  through  the  mud  instead  of  being 
conveyed  in  the  dean's  carriage ;  and  yet,  after 
that,  he  had  been  driven  to  accept  the  dean's 
charity!  No  one  respected  him.  No  one!  His 
very  wife  thought  that  he  was  a  lunatic.  And  now 
he  had  been  publicly  branded  as  a  thief;  and  in 
all  likelihood  would  end  his  days  in  a  jail ! 
Such  were  always  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  idle, 
silent,  moody,  over  the  fire;  and  his  wife  well 
knew  their  currents.  It  would  certainly  be  bet- 
ter that  he  should  drive  himself  to  some  employ- 
ment, if  any  employment  could  be  found  possi- 
ble to  him. 

When  she  had  been  alone  for  a  few  minutes 
Mrs.  Crawley  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  going 
into  the  kitchen  liglited  the  fire  there,  and  put 
the  kettle  over  it,  and  began  to  prepare  such 
breakfast  for  her  husband  as  the  means  in  the 
house  afforded.  Then  she  called  the  sleeping 
servant-girl,  who  was  little  more  than  a  child, 
and  went  into  her  own  girl's  room,  and  then  she 
got  into  bed  with  her  daughter. 

"I  have  been  up  with  your  papa,  dear,  and  I 
am  cold." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  poor  mamma !  Why  is  papa 
up  so  early  ?" 

"  He  has  gone  out  to  visit  some  of  the  brick- 


makers  before  they  go  to  their  work.     It  is  bet- 
ter for  him  to  be  employed." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  is  pitch  dark." 
"  Yes,  dear,  it  is  still  dark.     Sleep  again  for 
a  while,  and  I  will  sleep  too.     I  think  Grace 
will  be  here  to-night,  and  then  there  will  be  no 
room  for  me  here." 

Mr.  Crawley  went  forth  and  made  his  way 
with  rajiid  stejis  to  a  portion  of  his  ]}arish  near- 
ly two  miles  distant  from  his  house,  through 
which  was  carried  a  canal,  affording  water  com- 
munication in  some  intricate  way  both  to  Lon- 
don and  Bristol.  And  on  the  brink  of  this 
canal  there  had  sprung  up  a  colony  of  brick- 
makers,  the  nature  of  the  earth  in  those  parts 
combining  with  the  canal  to  make  brickmaking 
a  suitable  trade.  The  workmen  there  assem- 
bled were  not,  for  the  most  part,  native-born 
Ilogglestockians,  or  folk  descended  from  II(;g- 
glestockian  parents.  They  had  come  thither 
from  unknown  regions,  as  laborers  of  that  class 
do  come  when  they  are  needed.  Some  young 
men  from  that  and  neighboring  parishes  had 
joined  themselves  to  the  colony,  allured  by 
wages,  and  disregarding  the  menaces  of  the 
neighboring  farmers ;  but  they  were  all  in  ap- 
])earancc  and  manners  nearer  akin  to  the  race 
of  navvies  than  to  ordinary  rural  laborers. 
They  had  a  bad  name  in  the  country ;  but  it 
may  be  that  their  name  was  worse  than  their 
deserts.  The  farmers  hated  them,  and  conse- 
quently they  hated  the  farmers.  They  had  a 
beer-shop,  and  a  grocer's  shop,  and  a  huxter's 
shop  for  their  own  accommodation,  and  were 
consequently  vilified  by  the  small  old-estab- 
lished tradesmen  around  them.  They  got 
drunk  occasionally,  but  I  doubt  whether  they 
drank  more  than  did  the  farmers  themselves  on 
market-day.  Tiiey  fought  among  themselves 
sometimes,  but  they  forgave  each  other  freely, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  objection  to  black  eyes. 
I  fear  that  they  were  not  always  good  to  their 
Avives,  nor  were  their  wives  always  good  to 
them  ;  but  it  should  be  remombered  that  among 
the  poor,  especially  when  they  live  in  clusters, 
such  misfortunes  can  not  be  hidden  as  they 
may  be  amidst  the  decent  belongings  of  more 
wealthy  peo]iIe.  That  they  worked  very  hard 
was  certain;  and  it  was  certain  also  that  very 
few  of  their  number  ever  came  upon  the  ])oor 
rates.  What  became  of  the  old  brickmakers 
no  one  knew.  Who  over  sees  a  worn-out  aged 
navvie? 

Mr.  Crawley,  ever  since  his  first  coming  into 
Hogglestock,  had  been  very  busy  among  these 
brickmakers,  and  by  no  means  without  success. 
Indeed  the  farmers  had  quarreled  with  him  be- 
cause the  brickmakei's  had  so  crowded  the  nar- 
row parish  church  as  to  leave  but  scant  room 
for  decent  people.  "Doo  they  folk  pay  tithes? 
That's  what  I  want  'un  to  tell  me?"  argued 
one  farmer — not  altogether  unnaturally — be- 
lieving as  he  did  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  jiaid  by 
tithes  out  of  his  own  pocket.  But  Mr.  Crawley 
had  done  his  best  to  make  the  brickmakers  wel- 
come at  the  church,  scandalizing  the  farmers 


THE  LAST  CIIROXICLE  OF  BARSET. 


by  causing  them  to  sit  or  stand  in  any  portion 
of  tlie  church  whicli  was  hitherto  unajjproin-i- 
ated.  lie  had  been  constant  in  his  personal 
visits  to  thcni,  and  had  felt  himself  to  be  more 
a  St.  Paul  with  tliem  than  with  any  other  of 
his  neiglibors  around  him. 

It  was  a  cold  morning,  but  the  rain  of  the 
preceding  evening  liad  given  way  to  frost,  and 
the  air,  though  sharp,  was  dry.  The  ground 
under  the  feet  was  crisp,  having  felt  the  wind 
and  frost,  and  was  no  longer  clogged  with  mud. 
In  his  present  state  of  mind  the  walk  was  good 
for  our  poor  pastor,  and  exhilarated  him  ;  but 
still,  as  he  went,  he  thouglit  always  of  his  in- 
juries. His  own  wife  believed  tliat  he  was 
about  to  commit  suicide,  and  for  so  believing  he 
was  very  angry  with  her ;  and  yet,  as  he  well 
knew,  tlie  idea  of  making  away  with  himself 
had  flitted  throngli  his  own  mind  a  dozen 
times.  Not  from  his  own  wife  could  he  get 
real  sympatliy.  lie  would  see  what  he  could  do 
with  a  certain  brickmaker  of  his  acquaintance. 

"Are  you  here,  Dan?"  he  said,  knocking  at 
the  door  of  a  cottage  which  stood  alone,  close  to 
tlie  towing-path  of  the  canal,  and  close  also  to 
a  forlorn  corner  of  the  muddy,  watery,  ugly, 
disordered  brick-field.  It  was  now  just  past  six 
o'clock,  and  the  men  would  be  rising,  as  in  mid- 
winter they  commenced  their  work  at  seven. 
Tiie  cottage  was  an  unalluring,  straight,  brick- 
built  tenement,  seeming  as  though  intended  to 
be  one  of  a  row  which  had  never  progressed 
beyond  Number  One.  A  voice  answered  from 
the  interior,  inquiring  who  was  the  visitor,  to 
which  Mr.  Crawley  replied  by  giving  his  name. 
Tlun  the  key  was  turned  in  the  lock,  and  Dan 
!RIorris,  the  brickmaker,  appeared  with  a  candle 
in  his  hand.  He  had  been  engaged  in  lighting 
the  fire,  with  a  view  to  his  own  breakfast. 
"Where  is  your  wife,  Dan?"  asked  Mr.  Craw- 
ley. The  man  answered  by  pointing  with  a 
short  poker,  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  to  the 
bed,  which  was  half  screened  from  tlie  room  b}' 
a  ragged  curtain,  which  hung  from  the  ceiling 
half-way  down  to  the  floor,  "  And  are  the  Dar- 
vels  here?"  asked  Mr.  Crawley.  Then  Morris, 
again  using  the  poker,  pointed  upward,  showdng 
tliat  the  Darvels  were  still  in  their  own  allotted 
abode  up  stairs. 

"You're  early  out,  jVIuster  Crawley,"  said 
Morris,  and  then  he  went  on  with  his  fire. 
"Drat  tlie  sticks,  if  they  bean't  as  wet  as  the 
old  'un  hisself.  Get  up,  old  woman,  and  do 
you  do  it,  for  I  can't.  They  wun't  kindle  for 
me,  nohow."  But  the  old  woman,  having  well 
noted  the  presence  of  Mr.  Crawdey,  thouglit  it 
better  to  remain  where  she  was. 

Mr.  Crawley  sat  himself  down  by  the  obsti- 
nate fire,  and  began  to  arrange  tlie  sticks. 
"  Dan,  Dan  !"  said  a  voice  from  the  bed,  "  sure 
you  wouldn't  let  his  reverence  trouble  himself 
with  the  fire." 

"  How  be  I  to  keep  him  from  it  if  he  cliooses  ? 
I  didn't  ax  him."     Then  Morris  stood  by  and 
watclied,  and  after  a  while  I\Ir.  Crawley  suc- 
C23ded  in  his  attempt. 
D 


"  How  could  it  burn  when  you  had  not  given 
the  small  spark  a  current  of  air  to  helj)  it?" 
said  ]\Ir.  Crawley. 

"In  course  not,"  said  the  woman;  "but  he 
be  such  a  stupid." 

The  husband  said  no  word  in  acknowledgment 
of  this  compliment,  nor  did  he  thank  Mr.  Craw- 
ley for  what  he  had  done,  nor  appear  as  thougli 
he  intended  to  take  any  notice  of  him.  He  was 
going  on  witli  his  work  when  Mr.  Crawley  again 
interrupted  him. 

"How  did  you  get  back  from  SilvcrbriJge 
yesterday,  Dan  ?" 

"Footed  it — all  the  blessed  way." 

"  It's  only  eight  miles." 

"And  I  footed  it  there,  and  that's  sixteen. 
And  I  paid  one-and-sixpence  fur  beer  and  grub 
— s'help  me,  I  did." 

"Dan!"  said  the  voice  from  the  bed,  re- 
buking him  for  the  impropriety  cf  liis  lan- 
guage. 

"  Well ;  I  beg  pardon,  br.t  I  did.  And 
they  guv'  me  two  bob — just  two  plain  shillings, 

*  "Dan!" 

"And  I'd  've  arncd  tliree-and-six  here  at 
brickmaking  easy  ;  tliat's  what  I  would.  How's 
a  poor  man  to  live  tliat  way  ?  They'll  not  cotch 
me  at  Barchestcr  'Sizes  at  that  price;  they 
may  be  sure  of  that.  Look  there — that's  what 
I've  got  for  my  day."  And  he  put  Iiis  hand 
into  his  breeches'-pockct  and  fetched  out  a  six- 
pence. "How's  a  man  to  fill  his  belly  out  of 
that  ?     Damnation !" 

"Dan!" 

"Well,  what  did  I  say?  Hold  your  jaw, 
will  you,  and  not  be  liallooing  at  me  that  way. 
I  know  what  I'm  a  saying  of,  and  what  I'm  a 
doing  of." 

"  I  wish  they'd  given  you  something  more 
with  all  ni}'  heart,*'  s;iid  Crawley. 

"We  knows  that,"  said  the  woman  from  the 
bed.      "We  is  sure  of  that,  your  reverence." 

"  Sixpence !"  said  the  man,  scornfully.  "  If 
they'd  have  guv  me  nothing  at  all  but  the  run 
of  my  teeth  at  the  public-house  I'd  'vc  taken  it 
better.     But  sixpence !" 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  "And  what  have 
they  given  to  me?"  said  I\Ir.  Crawley,  when  the 
man's  ill-humor  about  his  sixpence  had  so  fiir 
subsided  as  to  allow  of  his  busying  himself  again 
about  the  premises. 

"Yes,  indeed — yes,  indeed,"  said  the  woman. 
"Yes,  yes,  we  feel  that;  we  do  indeed,  Mr. 
Crawdey." 

"I  tell  you  what,  Sir;  for  another  sixpence 
I'd  've  sworn  you'd  never  guv'  me  the  paper  at 
all ;  and  so  I  will  now,  if  it  bean't  too  late — six- 
pence or  no  sixpence.  What  do  I  care  ?  d — 
them !" 

"Dan!" 

"And  why  shouldn't  I?  They  hain't  got 
brains  enough  among  them  to  winny  the  trutii 
from  the  lies — not  among  the  lot  of  'em.  1 11 
swear  afore  the  judge  that  you  didn't  give  it  me 
at  all  if  that'll  do  anv  jrood." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAHSET. 


BI'EAi;    OUT,    llA.N. 


'•Man,  do  you  think  I  would  have  yon  per- 
jure yourself,  even  if  tliat  would  do  me  a  serv- 
ice? And  do  you  think  that  any  man  was  ever 
served  by  a  lie?" 

"Faix,  among  them  cliaps  it  don't  do  to  tell 
them  too  much  of  the  truth.  Look  at  that!" 
And  he  brought  out  the  sixpence  again  from  his 
breeches-pocket.  "And  look  at  your  rever- 
ence. Only  that  they've  let  you  out  for  a  while, 
they've  been  nigli  as  hard  on  you  as  though  you 
were  cue  of  us. " 


"  If  they  think  that  I  stole  it  they  have  been 
right,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"It's  been  along  of  that  chap  Soamcs."  said 
the  woman.  "Tiie  lord  would  've  p;iid  the 
money  out  of  his  own  pocket  and  never  said  not 
a  word." 

"If  thoy  tliink  that  I've  been  a  thief  tlicy'vc 
done  right,"  repeated  Mr.  Crawley.  "But  Jiow 
can  tliey  think  so  ?  How  can  they  think  so  ? 
Have  I  lived  like  a  thief  among  them  ?" 

"For  the  matter  o'  that,  if  a  man  ain't  paid^ 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


59 


for  his  work  by  them  as  is  his  employers  he 
must  pay  hissclf.  Them's  my  notions.  Look 
at  that!"  Whereupon  he  again  pulled  out  the 
sixpence,  and  held  it  forth  in  the  i)alm  of  his 
liand. 

"You  believe,  then,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  speak- 
ing very  slowly,  "that  I  did  steal  the  mone}'? 
Speak  out,  Dan ;  I  shall  not  be  angry.  As 
you  go  you  are  honest  men,  and  I  want  to  know 
what  such  of  you  think  about  it." 

"He  don't  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
the  woman,  almost  getting  out  of  bed  in  her 
energy.  "  If  he'd  a-thought  the  like  o'  that  in 
his  head  I'd  read  'un  such  a  lesson  he'd  never 
think  again  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

"  Speak  out,  Dan,"  said  the  clergyman,  not 
attending  to  the  woman.  "  You  can  understand 
that  no  good  can  come  of  a  lie."  Dan  Jlorris 
scratched  his  head.  "  Speak  out,  man,  when  I 
tell  you,"  said  Crawley. 

"  Drat  it  all,"  said  Dan,  "  where's  the  use  of 
so  much  jaw  about  it  ?" 

"  Say  you  know  his  reverence  is  as  innocent 
as  the  babe  as  isn't  born,"  said  the  woman. 

"  No  ;  I  won't  say  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Dan. 

"  Speak  out  the  truth,"  said  Crawley. 

"  Thej'  do  say,  among  'em,"  said  Dan,  "  that 
you  picked  it  up,  and  then  got  a  wool-gathering 
in  your  head  till  you  didn't  rightly  know  where 
it  come  from."  Then  he  paused.  "And  after 
a  bit  you  guv'  it  me  to  get  the  money.  Didn't 
you,  now?" 

"I  did." 

"  Aud  they  do  say  if  a  poor  man  had  done  it 
it'd  been  stealing,  for  sartain." 

"And  I'm  a  poor  man — the  poorest  in  all 
Hogglestock ;  and,  therefore,  of  course  it  is 
stealing.  Of  course  I  am  a  thief.  Yes ;  of 
course  I  am  a  thief.  When  did  not  the  world 
believe  the  worst  of  the  poor?"  Having  so 
spoken,  Sir.  Crawley  rose  from  his  chair  and 
hurried  out  of  the  cottage,  waiting  no  further 
reply  from  Dan  Morris  or  his  Avifc.  And  as  he 
made  his  way  slowly  home,  not  going  there  by 
the  direct  road,  but  by  a  long  circuit,  he  told 
himself  that  there  could  be  no  sympathy  for  him 
any  where.  Even  Dan  Morris,  the  brickmaker, 
thought  that  he  was  a  thief. 

"And  am  I  a  thief?"  he  said  to  himself, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  his 
hands  up  to  his  forehead.  , 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

THE    bishop's     AXGEL, 

It  was  nearly  nine  before  Mr.  Crawley  got 
back  to  his  house,  and  found  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter waiting  l)reakfast  for  him.  "  I  should  not 
wonder  if  Grace  were  over  here  to-day,"  said  f 
Mrs.  Crawley.  "  She'd  better  remain  where^i 
she  is,"  said  he.  After  this  the  meal  passed  al- 
most witiiout  a  word.  When  it  was  over,  Jane, 
at  a  sign  from  her  mother,  went  up  to  her  fa- 


ther and  asked  him  whether  she  should  read 
with  him.  "Not  now,"  ho  said,  "not  just 
now.  I  must  rest  my  brain  before  it  will  be  fit 
for  any  work."  Then  he  got  into  the  chair  over 
the  fire,  and  his  wife  began  to  fear  tliat  he  would 
remain  there  all  the  day. 

But  the  morning  was  not  far  advanced  when 
there  came  a  visitor  who  disturbed  him,  and  by 
disturbing  him  did  him  real  service.  Just  at 
ten  there  arrived  at  the  little  gate  before  the 
house  a  man  on  a  pony,  whom  Jane  espied 
standing  there  by  the  pony's  head  and  looking 
about  for  some  one  to  relieve  him  from  the 
charge  of  his  steed.  This  was  Mr.  Thumble, 
who  had  ridden  over  to  Hogglestock  on  a  poor 
spavined  brute  belonging  to  the  bishop's  stable, 
and  which  had  once  been  the  bishop's  cob.  Now 
it  was  the  vehicle  by  which  Mrs.  Broudie's  epis- 
copal messages  were  sent  backward  and  for- 
ward through  a  twelve-miles'  ride  round  Bar- 
chcster ;  and  so  many  were  the  lady's  require- 
ments that  the  poor  animal  by  no  means  ate 
the  hay  of  idleness.  Mr.  Thumble  had  suggest- 
ed to  Mrs.  Proudie  after  their  inteiwiew  with 
the  bishop  and  the  giving  up  of  the  letter  to  the 
clerical  messenger's  charge,  that  before  hiring  a 
gig  from  the  Dragon  of  Wantley  he  should  be 
glad  to  know — looking  as  he  always  did  to 
"Mary  Anne  and  the  children" — whence  the 
price  of  the  gig  was  to  be  returned  to  him. 
Mrs.  Proudie  had  frowned  at  him— not  with  all 
the  austerity  of  frowning  which  she  could  use 
when  really  angered,  but  simply  with  a  frown 
w'hich  gave  her  some  little  time  for  thought, 
and  would  enable  her  to  continue  the  rebuke  if, 
after  thinking,  she  should  find  that  rebuke  was 
needed.  But  mature  consideration  showed  her 
that  JMr.  Thumble's  caution  was  not  without 
reason.  Were  the  bishop  energetic — or  even 
the  bishop's  managing  chaplain  as  energetic 
as  he  should  be — Mr.  Crawley  might,  as  Mrs. 
Proudie  felt  assured,  be  made  in  some  way  to 
pay  for  a  conveyance  for  Mr.  Thumble.  But 
the  energy  was  lacking,  and  the  price  of  tlie  gig, 
if  the  gig  were  ordered,  would  certainly  fall  ul- 
timately upon  the  bishop's  shoulders.  This  was 
very  sad.  Mrs.  Proudie  had  often  grieved  over 
the  necessary  expenditure  of  ejjiscopal  surveil- 
lance, and  had  been  heard  to  declare  her  opin- 
ion that  a  liberal  allowance  for  secret  service 
should  be  made  in  every  diocese.  What  better 
could  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissionei's  do  with 
all  those  rich  revenues  which  they  had  stolen 
from  the  bishops?  But  there  was  no  such  lib- 
eral allowance  at  present,  and,  therefore,  Mrs. 
Proudie,  after  having  frowned  at  Mr.  Thumble 
for  some  seconds,  desired  him  to  take  the  gray 
cob.  Now  ]\Ir.  Thumble  had  ridden  the  gray 
cob  before,  and  would  much  have  preferred  a 
gig.  But  even  the  gray  cob  was  better  than  a 
gig  at  his  own  cost. 

"  Mamma,  there's  a  man  at  the  gate  wanting 
to  come  in,"  said  Jane.  "I  think  he's  a  cler- 
gyman." 

Mr.  Crawley  immediately  raised  his  head, 
though  he  did  not  at  once  leave  his  chair.    Mrs, 


GO 


THE  LAST  CnUONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Crawley  went  to  the  wiiulow,  and  recognized 
the  reverend  visitor.  "  AIv  dear,  it  is  tliat  Mr. 
Thumblc  wlio  is  so  mnch  with  the  bishop." 
"Wliat  does  Mr.  Thinnlile  want  with  nie?" 
"Nay,  my  dear;  lie  will  tell  you  that  him- 
self." IJut  Mrs.  Crawley,  though  she  answered 
him  with  a  voice  intended  to  be  cheerful,  great- 
ly feared  the  coming  of  this  messenger  from  the 
l>alace.  She  perceived  at  once  that  the  bislioj) 
was  about  to  interfere  with  her  husband  in  con- 
sequence of  that  which  the  magistrates  had  done 
yesterday. 

"Mamma,  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with 
his  pony,"  said  Jane. 

"Tell  him  to  tie  it  to  the  rail,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley.  "  If  he  has  expected  to  find  menials 
here,  as  he  has  tlicm  at  tlic  palace,  he  will  be 
^^■rong.  If  he  wants  to  come  in  here  let  him 
tie  the  beast  to  the  rail."  So  Jane  went  out  and 
sent  a  message  to  Mr.  Thumble  by  the  girl,  and 
]Mr.  Thumblc  did  tie  the  pony  to  the  rail,  and 
follou'cd  the  girl  into  the  house.  Jane  in  the 
mean  time  had  retired  out  by  the  back  door  to 
the  school,  but  Mrs.  Crawley  kept  her  ground. 
She  kept  her  ground,  although  she  almost  be- 
lieved that  her  husband  would  prefer  to  have 
the  field  to  himself.  As  Mr.  Thumble  did  not 
at  once  enter  the  room,  Mr.  Crawley  stalked  to 
the  door  and  stood  with  it  open  in  his  hand. 
Tliough  he  knew  Mr.  Tliumble's  person  he  was 
not  acquainted  with  him,  and  therefore  he  sim- 
]ily  bowed  to  the  visitor,  bowing  more  than  once 
or  twice  with  a  cold  courtesy  which  did  not 
put  Mr.  Thumble  altogether  at  his  ease.  "  My 
name  is  ^Mr.  Thumble,"  said  the  visit>Dr — "the 
Eeverend  Caleb  Thumble,"  and  he  held  the 
bishop's  letter  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Crawley  seem- 
ed to  take  no  notice  of  the  letter,  but  motioned 
Mr.  Thumble  with  his  hand  into  the  room. 

"I  suppose  you  have  come  over  from  Bar- 
chester  this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Crawlc}'. 

"Yes,  madam — from  the  palace."  Mr. 
Thnmble,  though  a  humble  man  in  positions  in 
which  he  felt  that  humility  would  become  him 
— a  humble  man  to  his  betters,  as  he  himself 
would  have  expressed  it — had  still  about  him 
something  of  that  pride  which  naturally  belong- 
ed to  those  clergymen  who  were  closely  attach- 
ed to  the  palace  at  Barchester.  Had  he  been 
sent  on  a  message  to  Plumstead — could  any  such 
message  from  Barchester  palace  have  been  pos- 
sible— he  would  have  been  ])roperly  humble  in 
his  demeanor  to  the  archdeacon,  or  to  Mrs. 
Grantly  had  he  been  admitted  to  the  august 
]iresence  of  that  lady  ;  but  he  was  aware  that 
humility  would  not  become  him  on  his  present 
mission  ;  ho  had  been  exjiressly  ordered  to  be 
firm  by  Mrs.  I'roudie,  and  firm  he  meant  to  be ; 
and  therefore,  in  communicating  to  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley the  fact  tliat  he  had  come  from  the  palace, 
he  did  load  the  tone  of  his  voice  with  something 
of  dignity  which  Mr.  Crawley  might  perhaps  be 
excused  for  regarding  as  arrogance. 

"And  what  does  the  '  palace'  want  with  me  ?" 
said  Mr.  Crawley.  Mrs.  Crawley  knew  at  once 
that  there  was  to  be  a  battle.     Naj-,  the  battle 


had  begun.  Nor  was  she  altogether  sorry ;  for 
though  she  could  not  trust  her  husband  to  sit 
alone  all  day  in  his  arm-chair  over  the  fire,  she 
could  trust  him  to  carry  on  a  disputation  with 
any  otiicr  clergyman  on  any  subject  whatever. 
"What  docs  the  ])alace  want  with  me  ?"  And 
as  Mr.  Crawley  asked  the  question  he  stood 
erect,  and  looked  Mr.  Thumble  full  in  the  face. 
Mr.  Thumble  called  to  mind  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Crawley  was  a  very  poor  man  indeed — so  poor 
that  he  owed  money  all  round  the  country  to 
butchers  and  l)akcrs,  and  the  other  fact  that 
he,  Mr.  Thumblc  himself,  did  not  owe  any 
money  to  any  one,  his  wife  luckily  having  a 
little  income  of  her  own  ;  and,  strengthened  by 
these  remembrances,  he  endeavored  to  bear  Mr. 
Crawley's  attack  with  gallantry. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Crawley,  you  are  aware  that 
this  unfortunate  afVair  at  Silverbridge — " 

"I  am  not  jircpared.  Sir,  to  discuss  the  un- 
fortunate affair  at  Silverbridge  with  a  stranger. 
If  j-ou  are  the  bearer  of  any  message  to  me 
from  the  Bishop  of  Barchester  perhaps  you  will 
deliver  it." 

"I  have  brought  a  letter,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 
Then  Mr.  Crawley  stretched  out  his  hand  with- 
out a  word,  and  taking  the  letter  with  him  to 
the  window,  read  it  very  slowly.  AVhen  he  had 
made  himself  master  of  its  contents  he  refold- 
ed the  letter,  placed  it  again  in  the  envelope, 
and  returned  to  the  spot  where  Mr.  Thumble 
was  standing.  "I  will  answer  the  bishoji's  let- 
ter," he  said  ;  "  I  will  answer  it,  of  course,  as  it 
is  fitting  that  I  should  do.  Shall  I  ask  you  to 
wait  for  my  rej)ly,  or  shall  I  send  it  by  course 
of  post  ?" 

"I  think,  Mr.  Crawley,  as  the  bishop  wishes 
me  to  undertake  the  duty — " 

"You  will  not  undertake  the  duty,  Mr.  Thum- 
ble. You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  for  I  shall 
not  surrender  my  pulpit  to  you." 

"But  the  bishop — " 

"  I  care  nothing  for  the  bishop  in  this  mat- 
ter." So  much  he  spoke  in  anger,  and  then  he 
corrected  himself.  "I  crave  the  bishop's  par- 
don, and  yours  as  his  messenger,  if  in  the  heat 
occasioned  by  my  strong  feelings  I  have  said 
aught  which  may  savor  of  irreverence  toward 
his  lordship's  office.  I  respect  his  lordship's 
high  position  as  bishop  of  this  diocese,  and  I 
bow  to  his  commands  in  all  things  lawful.  But 
I  must  not  bow  to  him  in  things  unlawful,  nor 
must  I  abandon  my  duty  before  God  at  his  bid- 
ding, unless  his  bidding  be  given  in  accordance 
with  the  canons  of  the  Church  and  the  laws  of 
the  land.  It  will  be  my  duty,  on  the  coming 
Sunday,  to  lead  the  prayers  of  my  people  in 
the  church  of  my  parish,  and  to  preach  to  them 
from  my  pulpit;  and  that  duty,  with  God's  as- 
sistance, I  will  perform.  Nor  will  I  allow  any 
clergyman  to  interfere  with  me  in  the  perform- 
ance of  those  sacred  offices — no,  not  though 
the  bishop  himself  should  be  present  with  the 
ol)ject  of  enforcing  his  illegal  command."  Mr. 
Crawley  spoke  tliese  words  without  hesitation, 
even  with  eloquence,  standing  upright,  and  with 


THE  LAST  CHEONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


CI 


something  of  a  noble  anger  gleaming  over  Lis 
poor  wan  face;  and,  I  think,  that  while  sjieak- 
ing  them  he  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for 
many  a  long  day.  / 

Mr.  Tiiumble  listened  to  him  patiently,  stand- 
ing with  one  foot  a  little  in  advance  of  the  other, 
with  one  hand  folded  over  the  other,  with  his 
head  rather  on  one  side,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  corner  whei'e  the  wall  and  ceiling  joined 
each  other.  lie  had  been  told  to  be  firm,  and 
he  was  considering  how  he  might  best  display 
firmness.  lie  thought  that  he  remembered 
some  story  of  two  parsons  fighting  for  one  puljiit, 
and  he  thought  also  that  he  should  not  himself 
like  to  incur  the  scandal  of  such  a  proceeding 
in  tlie  diocese.  As  to  the  law  in  the  matter  he 
knew  notliing  himself;  but  he  presumed  that  a 
bishop  would  probably  know  the  law  better  than 
a  perpetual  curate.  That  Mrs.  Proudie  was  in- 
.  temperate  and  imperious  he  was  aware.  Had 
the  message  come  from  her  alone,  he  might  have 
felt  that  even  for  her  sake  he  had  better  give 
way.  But  as  the  despotic  arrogance  of  the  lady 
had  been  iu  this  case  backed  by  the  timid  pres- 
ence and  hesitating  words  of  her  lord,  ]\Ir. 
Thumble  thought  that  he  must  have  tlie  law  on 
his  side.  "  I  think  you  will  find,  Mr.  Crawley," 
said  he,  "  that  the  bishop's  inhibition  is  strictly 
legal."  He  had  picked  up  the  powerful  word 
from  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  flattered  himself  that  it 
might  be  of  use  to  him  in  carrying  his  purpose. 

"It  is  illegal,"  said  Mr.  Crawlej^,  speaking 
somewhat  louder  than  before,  "and  will  be  ab- 
solutely futile.  As  you  pleaded  to  me  that  you 
yourself  and  your  own  personal  convenience 
were  concerned  in  this  matter,  I  have  made 
known  my  intentions  to  you,  which  otherwise  I 
should  have  made  known  only  to  the  bisliop. 
If  you  please,  we  will  discuss  the  subject  no 
further." 

"Am  I  to  understand,  Mr.  Crawley,  that 
you  refuse  to  obey  the  bishop  ?" 

"The  bishop  has  written  to  me.  Sir;  and  I 
will  make  known  my  intention  to  the  bishop  by 
a  written  answer.  As  you  have  been  the  bearer 
of  the  bishop's  letter  to  me,  I  am  bound  to  ask 
you  whether  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you  for  car- 
rying back  my  reply,  or  whether  I  shall  send  it 
by  course  of  post?"  Mr.  Thumble  considered 
for  a  moment,  and  then  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  had  better  wait  and  carry  back  the  epistle. 
This  was  Friday,  and  the  letter  could  not  be, 
delivered  by  post  till  the  Saturday  morning/ 
Mrs.  Proudie  might  be  angry  with  him  if  he 
should  be  the  cause  of  loss  of  time.  He  did  not, 
however,  at  all  like  waiting,  having  perceived 
that  Mr.  Crawley,  though  with  language  court- 
eously worded,  had  spoken  of  him  as  a  mere 
messenger. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  I  may,  perhaps, 
best  further  the  object  which  we  must  all  have 
in  view,  that  namely  of  jjroviding  properly  for 
the  Sunday  services  of  the  church  of  Iloggle- 
stock,  by  taking  your  reply  personally  to  the 
bishop." 

"That  provision  is  my  care,  and  need  trouble 


no  one  else,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  in  a  loud  voice. 
Then,  before  seating  himself  at  his  old  desk, 
he  stood  a  while,  pondering,  with  his  back 
turned  to  his  visitor.  "I  have  to  ask  your  par- 
don, Sir,"  said  he,  looking  round  for  a  moment, 
"because,  by  reason  of  the  exti'cme  poverty  of 
this  house,  my  wife  is  unable  to  offer  to  you  that 
hosjjitality  which  is  especially  due  from  one 
clergyman  to  another." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it!"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"If  you  will  allow  me.  Sir,  I  would  prefer 
that  it  should  be  mentioned."  Then  he  seated 
himself  at  his  desk,  and  commenced  his  letter. 

Mr.  Thumble  felt  himself  to  be  awkwardly 
placed.  Had  there  been  no  third  person  in  the 
room  he  could  have  sat  down  in  Mr.  Crawley's 
arm-chair,  and  waited  patiently  till  the  letter 
should  be  finished.  ButMrs.  Crawley  was  there, 
and  of  course  he  was  bound  to  speak  to  her. 
In  what  strain  could  he  do  so  ?  Even  he,  little  as 
he  v/as  given  to  indulge  in  sentiment,  had  been 
touched  by  the  man's  appeal  to  his  own  pover- 
ty, and  he  felt,  moreover,  that  Mrs.  Crawley 
must  have  been  deeply  moved  by  her  husband's 
position  with  reference  to  the  bishop's  order.  It 
was  quite  out  of  the  question  that  he  should 
speak  of  that,  as  INIr.  Crawley  would,  he  was 
well  awai'C,  immediately  turn  upon  him.  At 
last  he  thought  of  a  subject,  and  spoke  with  a 
voice  intended  to  be  jileasant.  "  That  was  the 
school-house  I  passed,  probably,  just  as  I  came 
here  ?"  Mrs.  Crawley  told  him  that  it  was  the 
school-house.  "  Ah,  yes,  I  thought  so.  Have 
you  a  certified  teacher  here?"  Mrs.  Crawley 
explained  that  no  Government  aid  had  ever 
reached  Hogglestock.  Besides  themselves,  they 
had  only  a  young  woman  whom  they  themselves 
had  instructed.  "  Ah,  that  is  a  pity,"  said  M:\ 
Thumble. 

"I — I  am  the  certified  teacher,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley,  turning  round  upon  him  from  his 
chair. 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Thumble  ;  and  after 
that  Mr.  Thumble  asked  no  more  questions  about 
the  Hogglestock  school.  Soon  afterward  Mrs. 
Crawley  left  the  room,  seeing  the  difliculty  un- 
der which  Mr.  Thumble  was  laboring,  and  feel- 
ing sure  that  her  presence  would  not  now  be 
necessary.  Mr.  Crawley's  letter  was  written 
quickly,  though  every  now  and  then  he  would 
sit  for  a  moment  with  his  pen  poised  in  the  air, 
searching  his  memory  for  a  word.  But  the 
words  came  to  him  easily,  and  before  an  hour 
was  over  he  had  handed  his  letter  to  Mv.  Thum- 
ble.    The  letter  was  as  follows : 

"The  Paesoxage,  Hogglf.stock,  Dec,  1SG-. 
"  Right  IvEVEEEND  Loud, — I  have  received 
the  letter  of  yesterday's  date  whicli  your  lord- 
ship has  done  me  the  honor  of  sending  to  me 
by  the  hands  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Thumble, 
and  I  avail  myself  of  that  gentleman's  kindness 
to  return  to  you  an  answer  by  the  same  means, 
moved  thus  to  use  his  patience  chiefly  by  the 
consideration  that  in  this  w-ay  my  reply  to  your 
loi-dship's  injunctions  may  be  in  your  hands  with 


62 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


less  delay  than  would  attend  the  regular  course 
of  the  mail-post. 

"It  is  with  Jeep  regret  that  I  feel  myself 
constrained  to  inform  your  lordship  that  I  can 
not  obey  the  command  which  you  have  laid 
npon  mo  with  reference  to  the  services  of  my 
church  in  this  ])arish.  I  can  not  permit  Mr. 
Thumble,  or  any  other  delegate  from  your  lord- 
ship, to  usurp  my  place  in  my  jjuljiit.  I  would 
not  have  you  to  tiiink,  if  I  can  jiossibly  dis])cl 
such  thoughts  from  your  mind,  that  I  disregard 
your  high  office,  or  that  I  am  deficient  in  that 
respectful  obedience  to  the  bishop  set  over  me 
which  is  due  to  the  authority  of  the  Crown  as 
the  head  of  the  church  in  these  realms;  but  in 
this,  as  in  all  questions  of  obedience,  he  who  is 
recpiired  to  obey  must  examine  the  extent  of 
the  authority  exercised  by  him  who  demands 
obedience.  Your  lordship  might  possibly  call 
n))on  me,  rising  your  voice  as  bishop  of  the  dio- 
cese, to  abandon  altogether  the  freehold  rights 
wliicli  are  now  mine  in  this  perpetual  curacy. 
The  judge  of  assize,  before  whom  I  shall  soon 
stand  for  my  trial,  might  command  mc  to  retire 
to  prison  -without  a  verdict  given  by  the  jury. 
The  magistrates  who  committed  me  so  lately  as 
yesterday,  npon  whose  decision  in  that  respect 
your  lordship  has  taken  action  against  me  so 
quickly,  might  have  equally  strained  their  au- 
thority. But  in  no  case,  in  this  land,  is  he 
that  is  subject  bound  to  obey  further  than 
where  the  law  gives  authority  and  exacts  obedi- 
ence. It  is  not  in  the  ])Ower  of  the  Crown  it- 
self to  inhibit  me  from  the  performance  of  my 
ordinary  duties  in  this  parish  by  any  such  mis- 
sive as  that  sent  to  me  by  your  lordsliip.  If  your 
lordship  think  it  right  to  stop  my  month  as  a 
clergyman  in  your  diocese,  you  must  proceed  to 
do  so  in  an  ecclesiastical  court  in  accordance 
with  the  laws,  and  will  succeed  in  your  object, 
or  fail,  in  accordance  with  the  evidences  as  to 
ministerial  fitness  or  unfitness  which  may  be  pro- 
duced respecting  me  before  the  proper  tribunal. 

"I  will  allow  that  much  attention  is  due  from 
a  clergyman  to  j)astoral  advice  given  to  him  by 
his  bishop.  On  that  head  I  must  first  express 
to  your  lordship  my  full  understanding  that 
your  letter  has  not  been  intended  to  convey  ad- 
vice, but  an  order — an  inhibition,  as  your  mes- 
senger, the  Reverend  Mr.  Thumble,  has  express- 
ed it.  There  might  be  a  case  certainly  in  which 
I  should  submit  myself  to  counsel,  though  I 
should  resist  command.  No  counsel,  however, 
has  been  given — except  indeed  that  I  sliould 
receive  your  messenger  in  a  proper  spirit,  which 
I  hope  I  have  done.  No  other  advice  has  been 
given  me,  and  therefore  thei-e  is  now  no  such 
case  as  that  I  have  imagined.  But  in  this  mat- 
ter, my  lord,  I  could  not  have  accepted  advice 
from  living  man,  no,  not  though  the  hands  of 
the  apostles  themselves  had  made  him  bishop 
who  tendered  it  to  me,  and  had  set  him  over  me 
for  my  guidance.  I  am  in  a  ten'ible  strait. 
Trouble,  and  sorrow,  and  danger  are  npon  me 
and  mine.  It  may  well  be,  as  your  lordship 
says,  that  the  bitter  waters  of  the  present  hour 


may  pass  over  my  head  and  destroy  me.  I 
tliank  your  lordship  for  telling  me  whither  I 
am  to  look  for  assistance.  Truly  I  know  not 
whether  there  is  any  to  be  found  for  me  on 
earth.  But  the  dec])er  my  troubles,  the  greater 
my  sorrow ;  the  more  pressing  my  danger,  the 
stronger  is  my  need  that  I  should  carry  myself 
in  these  days  with  that  outward  respect  of  self 
which  will  teach  those  around  me  to  know  that, 
let  who  will  condemn  me,  I  have  not  condemned 
myself.  Were  I  to  abandon  my  pulpit,  unless 
forced  to  do  so  by  legal  means,  I  shoidd  in  do- 
ing so  be  putting  a  jilca  of  guilty  against  my- 
self npon  the  record.  This,  my  lord,  I  will 
not  do. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  my  lord, 
"  Your  lordslii])"s  most  obedient  servant, 

"JOSIAH    CUAWLEY." 

When  he  had  finished  writing  his  letter  ho 
read  it  over  slowly,  and  then  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Thumble.  The  act  of  writing,  and  the  current 
of  the  thoughts  through  his  brain,  and  the  feel- 
ing that  in  every  word  Avritten  he  was  getting 
the  better  of  the  bishop — all  this  joined  to  a 
certain  manly  delight  in  warfare  against  author- 
ity, lighted  up  the  man's  face  and  gave  to  his 
eyes  an  expression  M-hich  had  been  long  wanting 
to  them.  His  wife  at  that  moment  came  into  the 
room,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  triumph 
as  he  handed  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thumble.  ' '  If  j-ou 
will  give  that  to  his  lordship,  with  an  assurance 
of  my  duty  to  his  lordship  in  all  things  proper, 
I  will  thank  you  kindly,  craving  your  pardon 
for  the  great  delay  to  which  you  have  been  sub- 
jected." 

"As  to  the  delay,  that  is  nothing,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble. 

"It  has  been  much  ;  but  you  as  a  clergj'man 
will  feel  that  it  has  been  incumbent  on  me  to 
speak  my  mind  full}'." 

"Oh  yes;  of  course."  Mr.  Crawley  was 
standing  up,  as  also  was  Mrs.  Crawlej*.  It  was 
evident  to  Mr.  Thumble  that  they  both  expected 
that  he  should  go.  But  he  had  been  specially 
enjoined  to  be  firm,  and  he  doubted  whether 
hitherto  he  had  been  firm  enough.  As  far  as 
this  morning's  work  had  as  yet  gone,  it  seemed 
to  hinr  that  JNIr.  Crawley  had  had  the  jday  all 
to  himself,  and  that  he,  Mr.  Thumble,  had  not 
had  his  innings.  He,  from  the  palace,  had  been, 
as  it  were,  cowed  by  this  man,  who  had  been 
forced  to  plead  his  own  poverty.  It  was  cer- 
tainly incumbent  upon  him,  before  he  went,  to 
speak  np,  not  only  for  the  bishop,  but  for  him- 
self also.  "Mr.  Crawley,"  he  said,  "hitherto 
I  have  listened  to  you  patiently." 

' '  Nay, "  said  Mr.  Crawley,  smiling,  "you  have 
indeed  been  patient,  and  I  thank  you ;  but  my 
words  have  been  written,  not  spoken." 

"You  have  told  me  that  you  intend  to  dis- 
obey the  bisliop's  inhibition."  ' 

"I  have  told  the  bishop  so  certainly." 

"  jNIay  I  ask  you  now  to  listen  to  me  for  a 
few  minutes?" 

Mr.  Crawley,  still  smiling,  still  having  in  his 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


63 


eyes  the  unwonted  triumph  which  had  lighted 
them  up,  paused  a  moment,  and  then  answered 
him.  "Reverend  Sir,  you  must  exeusc  me  if 
I  say  no — not  on  this  subject." 

"You  will  not  let  me  speak ?" 

"No;  not  on  tliis  matter,  which  is  very  pri- 
vate to  me.  What  should  you  think  if  I  went 
into  your  house  and  inquired  of  you  as  to  those 
things  which  were  particularly  near  to  you?" 

"But  the  bishop  sent  me." 

"  Though  ten  bishops  had  sent  me — a  coun- 
cil of  archbishops  if  you  will!"  Mr.  Thiimble 
started  back,  appalled  at  the  energy  of  the  words 
used  to  him.  "  Shall  a  man  have  nothing  of 
his  own — no  sorrow  in  his  heart,  no  care  in  his 
family,  no  thought  in  his  breast  so  private  and 
special  to  him,  but  that,  if  he  happen  to  be  a 
clergyman,  the  bishop  may  touch  it  with  his 
thumb  ?" 

"I  am  not  the  bishop's  thumb,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble,  drawing  himself  up. 

"I  intended  not  to  hint  any  tiling  personally 
objectionable  to  yourself.  I  will  regard  you  as 
one  of  the  angels  of  the  churcli."  Mr.  Thum- 
ble, when  he  heard  this,  began  to  be  sure  that 
Mr.  Crawley  was  mad ;  he  knew  of  no  angels  that 
could  ride  about  the  Barsetshire  lanes  on  gray 
ponies.  "  And  as  such  I  will  respect  you ;  but 
I  can  not  discuss  with  you  the  matter  of  the 
bishop's  message." 

"Oh,  very  well.     I  will  tell  his  lordship." 

"I  will  pray  you  to  do  so." 

"And  his  lordship,  should  he  so  decide,  will 
arm  me  with  sucli  power  on  my  next  coming 
as  will  enable  me  to  carry  out  his  lordship's 
wishes." 

"His  lordship  will  abide  by  the  law,  as  will 
you  also."  In  speaking  these  last  words  he 
stood  with  the  door  in  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Thum- 
ble, not  knowing  how  to  increase  or  even  to 
maintain  his  firmness,  thought  it  best  to  pass 
out,  and  mount  his  gray  pony  and  ride  away. 

' '  The  poor  man  thought  that  you  were  laugh- 
ing at  him  when  you  called  him  an  angel  of  the 
church,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley,  coming  up  to  him 
and  smiling  on  him. 

"Had  I  told  him  he  was  simply  a  messenger, 
he  would  have  taken  it  worse — poor  fool !  When 
they  have  rid  themselves  of  me  they  may  put 
him  here,  in  my  church ;  but  not  yet — not  yet. 
Where  is  Jane  ?  Tell  her  that  I  am  ready  to 
commence  the  Seven  against  Thebes  with  her." 
Then  Jane  was  immediately  sent  for  out  of  the 
school,  and  the  Seven  against  Thebes  was  com- 
menced with  gi-eat  energy.  Often  during  the 
next  hour  and  a  half  IMrs.  Crawley  from  the 
kitchen  would  hear  him  reading  out,  or  rather 
saying  by  rote,  with  sonorous,  rolling  voice,  great 
passages  from  some  chorus,  and  she  was  very 
thankful  to  the  bishop  who  had  sent  over  to 
them  a  message  and  a  messenger  which  had  been 
so  salutary  in  their  effect  upon  her  husband. 
"In  truth  an  angel  of  the  church,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  chopped  up  the  onions  for  the 
mutton-broth :  and  ever  afterward  she  regarded 
Mr.  Thumble  as  an  "angel." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND. 

Grace  Crawlky  passed  through  Silverbridge 
on  her  way  to  Allington  on  the  Monday,  and  on 
the  Tuesday  morning  Major  Grantly  received  a 
very  short  note  from  Miss  Frettyman,  telling 
him  that  she  had  done  so.  "  Dear  Sir, — I  think 
you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  our  friend,  Miss 
Crawley,  went  from  us  yesterday  on  a  visit  to 
her  friend.  Miss  Dale,  at  Allington. — Youre 
truly,  Annabella  Prettyman."  The  note  said 
no  more  than  that.  Major  Grantly  was  glad 
to  get  it,  obtaining  from  it  that  satisfaction 
which  a  man  always  feels  when  he  is  presumed 
to  be  concerned  in  the  affairs  of  the  lady  with 
whom  he  is  in  love.  And  he  regarded  Miss 
Prettyman  with  favorable  eyes,  as  a  discreet 
and  friendly  woman.  Nevertheless,  he  was  not 
altogether  happy.  The  very  fact  that  Miss 
Prettyman  should  write  to  him  on  such  a  sub- 
ject made  him  feel  that  he  was  bound  to  Grace 
Crawley.  He  knew  enougli  of  himself  to  be 
sure  that  he  could  not  give  her  up  without  mak- 
ing himself  miserable.  And  yet,  as  regarded 
her  father,  things  were  going  from  bad  to  woi'se. 
Every  bod_v  now  said  that  the  evidence  was  so 
strong  against  Mr.  Crawley  as  to  leave  hardly  a 
doubt  of  his  guilt.  Even  the  ladies  in  Silver- 
bridge  were  beginning  to  give  up  his  cause,  ac- 
knowledging that  the  money  could  not  have 
come  rightfully  into  his  hands,  and  excusing 
him  on  the  plea  of  partial  insanity.  "He  has 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  by  for  months,  and  then 
thought  that  it  was  his  own."  The  ladies  of 
Silverbridge  could  find  nothing  better  to  say  for 
him  than  that ;  and  when  young  Mr.  AValker 
remarked  that  such  little  mistakes  were  the  cus- 
tomary causes  of  men  being  taken  to  prison  the 
ladies  of  Silverbridge  did  not  know  how  to  an- 
swer him.  It  had  come  to  be  their  opinion 
that  ]Mr.  Crawley  was  affected  with  a  partial 
lunacy,  whicli  ought  to  be  forgiven  in  one  to 
whom  the  world  had  been  so  cruel ;  and  when 
young  Mr.  Walker  endeavored  to  explain  to 
them  tliat  a  man  must  be  sane  altogether  or 
mad  altogether,  and  that  Sir.  Crawley  must,  if 
sane,  be  locked  up  as  a  thief,  and  if  mad,  locked 
up  as  a  madman,  they  sighed,  and  were  con- 
vinced that  until  the  world  should  have  been 
improved  by  a  new  infusion  of  romance,  and  a 
stronger  feeling  of  poetic  justice,  INIr.  John 
Walker  was  right. 

And  the  result  of  this  general  opinion  made 
its  way  out  to  i\Iajor  Grantly,  and  made  its  way, 
also,  to  the  archdeacon  at  Plumstead.  As  to 
the  major,  in  giving  him  his  due,  it  must  be  ex- 
plained that  the  more  certain  he  became  of  the 
fixther's  guilt,  the  more  certain  also  he  became 
of  the  daughter's  merits.  It  was  very  hard. 
The  whole  thing  was  cruelly  hard.  It  was  cru- 
elly hard  upon  him  that  he  should  be  brought 
into  this  trouble,  and  be  forced  to  take  upon 
himself  the  armor  of  a  knight-errant  for  the  re- 
dress of  the  wrong  on  the  part  of  the  young  lady. 
But  when  alone  in  his  house,  or  with  his  child. 


(   i 


C-l 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


he  declared  to  himself  that  he  would  do  so.  It 
niij^ht  well  he  that  he  could  not  live  in  Barset- 
shire  after  he  had  married  Mr.  Crawley's  daugh- 
ter. He  had  inherited  from  his  father  enough 
of  that  longing  for  ascendency  among  those 
around  him  to  make  him  feel  that  in  such  cir- 
cumstances he  would  he  wretched.  But  he 
would  he  made  more  wretched  hy  the  self-knowl- 
edge that  he  had  hcliaved  hadly  to  the  girl  he 
loved ;  and  the  world  hcyond  IJarsetsliire  was 
open  to  him.  He  would  take  her  with  him  to 
Canada,  to  New  Zealand,  or  to  some  other  far- 
away country,  and  there  hegin  his  life  again. 
Should  his  father  choose  to  punish  him  for  so 
doing  by  disinheriting  him,  they  would  he  poor 
enough ;  but  in  his  present  frame  of  mind,  the 
major  was  able  to  regard  such  jjovcrty  as  honor- 
able and  not  altogether  disagreeable. 

He  hail  been  out  shooting  all  day  at  Chaldi- 
cotes,  with  Dr.  Thorne  and  a,  party  who  were 
staying  in  the  house  there,  and  had  been  talk- 
ing about  Mr.  Crawley,  first  with  one  man  and 
then  with  another.  Lord  Lufton  had  been 
there,  and  young  Gresham  from  Grcshamsbury, 
and  Mr.  llobarts,  the  clergyman,  and  news  had 
come  among  them  of  the  attempt  made  by  the 
bishop  to  stop  Mr.  Crawley  from  preaching. 
Mr.  Robarts  had  been  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Craw- 
ley should  have  given  way ;  and  Lord  Lufton, 
who  shared  his  mother's  intense  dislike  of  every 
thing  that  came  from  the  palace,  had  sworn  that 
he  was  right  to  resist.  The  sympathy  of  the 
whole  party  had  been  with  Mr.  Crawley  ;  but 
they  had  all  agreed  that  he  had  stolen  the 
money. 

"  I  fear  he'll  have  to  give  way  to  the  bishop 
at  last,"  Lord  Lufton  had  said. 

"And  what  on  earth  will  become  of  his  chil- 
dren?" said  the  doctor.  "Think  of  the  fate  of 
that  pretty  girl ;  for  she  is  a  very  pretty  girl. 
It  will  be  ruin  to  her.  No  man  will  allow  him- 
self to  fall  in  love  with  her  when  her  fatlier  shall 
have  been  found  guilty  of  stealing  a  check  for 
twenty  pounds." 

"  We  must  do  something  for  the  w  hole  fiim- 
ily,"  said  the  lord.  "  I  say,  Thorne,  you  haven't 
half  tiie  game  here  that  there  used  to  be  in  poor 
old  Sowerby's  time." 

"Haven't  I?"  said  the  doctor.  "You  see 
Sowerby  had  been  at  it  all  his  days,  and  never 
did  any  thing  else.      I  only  began  late  in  life." 

The  major  had  intended  to  stay  and  dine  at 
Chaldicotes,  but  when  he  heard  what  was  said 
about  Grace  his  heart  became  sad,  and  he  made 
some  excuse  as  to  his  child  and  returned  home. 
Dr.  Thorne  had  declared  that  no  man  could  al- 
low himself  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  But  what 
if  a  man  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  beforehand  ? 
What  if  a  man  had  not  only  fallen  in  love,  but 
spoken  of  his  love?  Had  he  been  alone  with 
the  doctor  he  would,  I  think,  have  told  him  the 
whole  of  his  trouble ;  for  in  all  the  county  there 
was  no  man  whom  he  would  sooner  have  trusted 
with  his  secret.  This  Dr.  Thorne  was  known 
far  and  wide  for  his  soft  heart,  his  open  hand, 
and  his  well-sustained  indifierence  to  the  world's 


o])inions  on  most  of  those  social  matters  witli 
which  the  world  meddles ;  and  therefore  the 
words  which  he  had  spoken  had  more  weight 
with  ISIajor  Grantly  than  they  would  have  had 
from  other  lips.  As  he  drove  home  he  almost 
made  u])  his  mind  that  he  would  consult  Dr. 
Thorne  u])on  tlie  matter.  There  were  many 
younger  men  with  whom  he  was  very  intimate 
— Frank  Gresham,  for  instance,  and  Lord  Luf- 
ton himself;  but  this  was  an  att'air  which  he 
hardly  knew  how  to  discuss  with  a  young  man. 
To  Dr.  Tliorne  he  thought  that  he  could  bring 
himself  to  tell  tlie  whole  story. 

In  the  evening  there  came  to  him  a  messen- 
ger from  Plumstead,  with  a  letter  from  his  fa- 
tlier and  some  present  for  the  child.  He  knew 
at  once  that  the  present  had  been  thus  sent  as  an 
excuse  for  the  letter.  His  father  might  have 
written  by  the  post,  of  course;  but  that  would 
have  given  to  his  letter  a  certain  air  and  tone 
which  he  had  not  wished  it  to  bear.  After  some 
message  from  tlie  major's  mother,  and  some  al- 
lusion to  Edith,  the  arclideacon  struck  off  upon 
the  matter  that  was  near  his  heart. 

"I  fear  it  is  all  up  with  that  unfortunate  man 
at  Ilogglestock,"  he  said.  "  From  what  I  hear 
of  the  evidence  which  came  out  before  the  mag- 
istrates, there  can,  I  think,  be  no  doubt  as  to  his 
guilt.  Have  you  heard  that  the  bishop  sent 
over  on  the  following  day  to  stop  him  from 
preaching  ?  He  did  so,  and  sent  again  on  the 
Sunday.  But  Crawley  would  not  give  w^iy,  and 
so  far  I  respect  the  man ;  for,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  whatever  the  bishop  did,  or  attempted 
to  do,  he  would  do  with  an  extreme  of  bad  taste, 
[irobably  with  gross  ignorance  as  to  his  own  duty 
and  as  to  the  duty  of  the  man  under  him.  I 
am  told  that  on  tlie  first  day  Crawley  turned 
out  of  his  house  the  messenger  sent  to  him — 
some  stray  clergyman  whom  Mrs.  Proudie  keeps 
about  the  house;  and  that  on  the  Sunday  the 
stairs  to  the  reading-desk  and  pulpit  were  oc- 
cupied by  a  lot  of  brickmakers,  among  whom 
the  parson  from  Barchester  did  not  venture  to 
attempt  to  make  his  way,  although  he  was  for- 
tified by  the  presence  of  one  of  the  cathedral 
vergers  and  by  one  of  the  palace  footmen.  I 
can  hardly  believe  about  the  verger  and  the 
footman.  As  for  the  rest,  I  have  no  doubt  it  is 
all  true.  I  jiity  Crawley  from  my  heart.  Poor, 
unfortunate  man  !  The  general  oj)inion  seems 
to  be  that  he  is  not  in  truth  responsible  for  what 
he  has  done.  As  for  his  victory  over  the  bishop, 
nothing  on  earth  could  be  better. 

"Your  mother  particularly  wishes  yoit  to 
come  over  to  us  before  the  end  of  the  week,  and 
to  bring  Edith.  Your  grandfather  will  be  here, 
and  he  is  becoming  so  infirm  that  he  will  never 
come  to  us  for  another  Christmas.  Of  course 
you  will  stay  over  the  new  year." 

Though  the  letter  was  full  of  JNIr.  Crawley 
and  his  affairs  there  was  not  a  word  in  it  about 
Grace.  This,  however,  was  quite  natural. 
Major  Grantly  perfectly  well  understood  his  fa- 
ther's anxiety  to  carry  his  point  without  seeming 
to  allude  to  the  disagreeable  subject.      "My  fa- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Gs 


ther  is  very  clever,"  lie  said  to  himself,  "very 
clever.  But  he  isn't  so  clever  but  one  can  see 
how  clever  he  is." 

Oa  the  next  day  he  went  into  Sllverbridgc, 
intending  to  call  on  Miss  Prettyman.  He  had 
not  quite  made  up  his  mind  what  he  would  say 
to  Miss  Prettyman  ;  nor  was  he  called  upon  to 
do  so,  as  lie  never  got  as  far  as  that  lady's  house. 
While  walking  up  the  High  Street  he  saw  Mrs. 
Thorne  in  her  carriage,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  he  stopped  to  speak  to  her.  lie  knew 
Mrs.  Tliorne  quite  as  intimately  as  he  did  her 
husband,  and  liked  her  quite  as  well.  "  Major 
Grantly,"  she  said,  speaking  out  loud  to  him, 
half  across  the  street;  "I  was  very  angry  with 
you  yesterday.  Why  did  you  not  come  up  to 
dinner?  We  had  a  room  ready  for  you  and 
every  thing." 

"I  wasliot  quite  well,  Mrs.  Thorne." 

"Fiddlestick!  Don't  tell  me  of  not  being 
well.  There  was  Emily  breaking  her  heart 
about  you." 

"I'm  sure  Miss  Dunstable — " 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  she'll  get  over 
it.  It  won't  be  mortal  with  her.  But  do  tell 
ine.  Major  Grantly,  what  are  wc  to  think  about 
this  poor  jMr.  Crawley?  It  was  so  good  of  you 
to  be  one  of  his  bailsmen." 

"  lie  would  have  found  twenty  in  Silver- 
bridge  if  he  had  wanted  them." 

"And  do  you  hear  that  he  has  defied  the 
bishop?  I  do  so  like  him  for  that.  Not  but 
what  poor  Mrs.  Proudie  is  the  dearest  friend  I 
have  in  the  world,  and  I'm  always  fighting  a 
battle  with  old  Lady  Lufton  on  her  behalf.  But 
one  likes  to  sec  one's  friends  worsted  sometimes, 
you  know." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  did  happen 
at  Ilogglestock  on  Sunday,"  said  the  major. 

"Some  say  he  had  the  bishoji's  cliai)lain  put 
imdcr  the  pump.  I  don't  believe  that;  but 
there  is  no  doubt  that  when  the  poor  fellow 
tried  to  get  into  the  pulpit  they  took  him  and^ 
carried  him  neck  and  heels  out  of  the  church^ 
But  tell  me,  IMajor  Grantly,  what  is  to  become 
of  the  fivmily  ?" 

"  Heaven  knows  1" 

"Is  it  not  sad?  And  that  eldest  girl  is  so 
nice!  Tliey  tell  me  that  she  is  perfect — not 
only  in  beauty,  but  in  manners  and  accomplish- 
j  ments.  Every  body  says  that  she  talks  Greek 
i  just  as  well  as  she  does  English,  and  that  she 
!  understands  philosophy  from  the  top  to  the  bot- 
I  tom." 

'        "At  any  rate,  she  is  so  good  and  so  lovely 
'   that  one  can  not  but  pity  her  now,"  said  the 
major. 

"You  know  her,  then,  Major  Grantly  ?  By- 
the-by,  of  course  you  do,  as  you  were  staying 
with  her  at  Framley." 

"Yes,  I  know  her." 

I' What  is  to  become  of  her?  I'm  going 
your  way.  You  might  as  well  get  into  the  car- 
riage, and  I'll  drive  you  home.  If  he  is  sent 
.to  prison — and  they  say  he  must  be  sent  to  pris- 
on— what  is  to  become  of  them  ?"    Then.  Maior 


Grantly  did  get  into  the  carriage,  and  before 
he  got  out  again  he  had  told  Mrs.  Thorne  the 
whole  story  of  his  love. 

She  listened  to  him  with  the  closest  atten- 
tion ;  only  interrupting  him  now  and  then  with 
little  words  intended  to  signify  her  approval. 
He,  as  he  told  his  tale,  did  not  look  her  in  the 
face,  but  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  muff. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  her  almost 
for  the  first  time  as  he  finished  his  speech,  "  and 
now,  ^Irs.  Thorne,  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"JNIarry  her,  of  course,"  said  she,  raising  her 
hand  aloft  and  bringing  it  down  heavily  upon 
his  knee  as  she  gave  her  decisive  reply. 

"II — sli — h!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  back  in 
dismay  toward  the  servants. 

"Oh,  they  never  hear  any  thing  np  there. 
They're  thinking  about  the  last  pot  of  porter 
they  had,  or  the  next  they're  to  get.  Deary 
me,  I  am  so  glad  !     Of  course  you'll  marry  her  ?" 

"Y'ou  forget  my  father." 

"No,  I  don't.  What  has  a  father  to  do  with 
it  ?  Y'ou'rc  old  enough  to  please  yourself  with- 
out asking  your  father.  Besides,  Lord  bless 
me  I  the  archdeacon  isn't  the  man  to  bear  mal- 
ice. He'll  storm  and  threaten  and  stop  the 
supplies  for  a  month  or  so.  Then  he'll  double 
tiiem,  and  take  your  wife  to  his  bosom,  and  kiss 
her  and  bless  her,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 
We  all  know  what  parental  wrath  means  in 
such  cases  as  that." 

"  But  my  sister — " 

"As  for  your  sister,  don't  talk  to  me  about 
her.  I  don't  care  two  straws  about  your  sister. 
Y"ou  must  excuse  me,  Major  Grantly,  but  Lady 
Hartletop  is  really  too  big  for  my  powers  of  vi- 
sion." 

"  And  Edith— of  course,  Mrs.  Thorne,  I  can't 
be  blind  to  the  fact  that  in  many  ways  such  a 
marriage  would  be  injurious  to  her.  No  man 
wishes  to  be  connected  with  a  convicted  thief." 

"No,  iNIajor  Grantly;  but  a  man  does  wish 
to  marry  the  girl  that  he  loves.  At  least  I  sup- 
pose so.  And  what  man  ever  was  able  to  give 
a  more  touching  proof  of  his  alTection  than  you 
can  do  now  ?  If  I  were  you,  I'd  be  at  Allington 
before  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow — I  would  in- 
deed. What  does  it  matter  about  the  trump- 
ery check  ?  Every  body  knows  it  was  a  mistake 
if  he  did  take  it.  And  surely  you  would  not 
punish  her  for  that." 

"No — no;  but  I  don't  suppose  she'd  think  it 
a  punishment." 

"  You  go  and  ask  her,  then.  And  I'll  tell 
you  what.  If  she  hasn't  a  house  of  her  own  to 
be  married  from,  she  shall  be  married  from 
Chaldicotes.  We'll  have  such  a  breakfast ! 
And  I'll  make  as  much  of  her  as  if  she  were 
the  daughter  of  my  old  friend,  the  bishop  him- 
self— I  will  indeed." 

This  was  IMrs.  Thome's  advice.  Before  it 
was  completed  Major  Grantly  had  been  carried 
half-way  to  Chaldicotes.  When  he  left  his  im- 
petuous friend  he  was  too  prudent  to  make  any 
promise,  but  he  declared  that  what  she  had  said 
should  have  much  weight  with  him. 


CG 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


"  You  won't  mention  it  to  any  body  ?"  said 
the  major. 

"Certainly  not,  without  your  leave,"  said 
Mrs.  'I'horne.  "  Don't  you  know  that  I'm  the 
soul  of  iionor  ?" 


CIIArTER  XV. 


VV     IN     LONDON. 


Some  kind  and  attentive  reader  may  perhaps 
remember  that  Miss  Grace  Crawley,  in  a  letter 
written  by  her  to  her  friend  Miss  Lily  Dale, 
said  a  word  or  two  of  a  certain  John.  "  If  it 
can  onl}'  be  as  John  Avishcs  it!"  And  the  same 
reader,  if  there  be  one  so  kind  and  attentive, 
may  also  remember  that  Miss  Lily  Dale  had 
declared,  in  reply,  that  "about  that  other  sub- 
ject she  would  rather  say  nothing;"  and  then 
she  had  added,  "^yhcn  one  thinks  of  going 
beyond  friendsliip — even  if  one  tries  to  do  so — 
there  are  so  many  barriers !"  From  which  words 
the  kind  and  attentive  reader,  if  such  reader  be 
in  such  matters  intelligent  as  well  as  kind  and 
attentive,  may  have  learned  a  great  deal  with 
reference  to  Miss  Lily  Dale. 

We  will  now  pay  a  visit  to  the  John  in  ques- 
tion— a  certain  Mr.  John  Eames,  living  in  Lon- 
don, a  bachelor,  as  the  intelligent  reader  will 
certainly  have  discovered,  and  cousin  to  Miss 
Grace  Crawley.  Mr.  John  Eames  at  the  time 
of  our  story  was  a  young  man,  some  seven  or 
eight  and  twenty  years  of  age,  living  in  London, 
where  he  was  supposed  by  his  friends  in  the 
country  to  have  made  his  mark,  and  to  be  some- 
thing a  little  out  of  the  common  way.  But  I 
do  not  know  that  he  was  very  much  out  of  the 
common  way,  except  in  the  fact  that  he  had  had 
some  few  thousand  pounds  left  him  by  an  old 
nobleman  who  had  been  in  no  way  related  to 
him,  but  who  had  regarded  him  with  great  af- 


fection, and  who  had  died  some  two  years  since. 
Before  this,  John  Eames  had  not  been  a  very 
l)oor  man,  as  he  filled  the  comfortable  official 
jiosition  of  ])rivatc  secretary  to  the  Chief  Com- 
missioner of  the  Income-tax  Board,  and  drew  a 
salary  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year 
from  the  resources  of  his  country  ;  but  when,  in 
addition  to  this  source  of  official  Avealth,  he  be- 
came known  as  the  undoubted  possessor  of  a 
iiundrcd  and  twenty-eight  shares  in  one  of  the 
most  j)rospcious  joint-stock  banks  in  the  me- 
tropolis, which  property  had  been  left  to  him 
free  of  legacy  duty  by  the  lamented  nobleman 
above  named,  then  Mr.  John  Eames  rose  very 
high  indeed  as  a  young  man  in  the  estimation 
of  those  who  knew  him,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
something  a  good  deal  out  of  the  common  way. 
Ilis  mother,  wlio  lived  in  the  country,  was  obe- 
dient to  his  slightest  word,  never  venturing  to 
impose  u]>on  him  any  sign  of  parental  author- 
ity; and  to  his  sister,  Mary  Eames,  who  lived 
''with  her  mother,  he  was  almost  a  god  upon 
earth.  To  sisters  who  have  nothing  of  their 
own — not  even  some  special  god  for  their  own 
individual  worship — generous,  aficctionate,  un- 
married brothers,  with  sufficient  incomes,  are 
gods  ujjon  earth. 

And  even  u\>  in  London  Mr.  John  Eames  was 
somebody.  He  was  so  csiJCcially  at  his  office; 
although,  indeed,  it  was  remembered  by  many 
a  man  how  raw  a  lad  he  had  been  when  he  first 
came  there,  not  so  very  many  years  ago ;  and 
how  they  had  lauglied  at  him  and  played  him 
tricks ;  and  how  he  had  customarily  been  known 
to  be  without  a  shilling  for  the  last  week  before 
pay-day,  during  which  ]ieriod  he  would  borrow 
sixpence  here  and  a  shilling  there  with  great 
energy,  from  men  who  now  felt  themselves  to 
be  honored  when  he  smiled  upon  them.  Little 
stories  of  his  former  days  would  often  be  told  of 
him  behind  his  back ;  but  they  were  not  told 
with  ill-nature,  because  he  was  very  constant  in 
referring  to  the  same  matters  himself.  And  it 
was  acknowledged  by  every  one  at  the  office 
that  neither  the  friendship  of  the  nobleman,  nor 
the  fact  of  the  private  secretaryship,  nor  the  ac- 
quisition of  his  wealth,  had  made  him  proud  to 
his  old  companions  or  forgetful  of  old  friend- 
ships. To  the  young  men,  lads  who  had  lately 
been  appointed,  he  was  perhaps  a  little  cold ; 
but  then  it  was  only  reasonable  to  conceive  that 
such  a  one  as  Mr.  John  Eames  was  now  could 
not  be  expected  to  make  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  every  new  clerk  that  might  be  brought 
into  the  office.  Since  competitive  examinations 
had  come  into  vogue  there  was  no  knowing 
who  might  be  introduced  ;  and  it  was  understood 
generally  through  the  establishment — and  I  may 
almost  say  by  the  civil  service  at  large,  so  wide 
was  his  fame — that  Mr.  Eames  was  very  averse 
to  the  whole  theory  of  competition.  The  "  Devil 
take  the  hindmost"  scheme,  he  called  it ;  and 
would  then  go  on  to  explain  that  hindmost  can- 
didates were  often  the  best  gentlemen,  and  that, 
in  this  way,  the  Devil  got  the  pick  of  the  flock. 
And  he  was  respected  the  more  for  this  opinion 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


G7 


because  it  was  known  that  on  this  subject  he  had 
fought  some  hard  battles  with  the  chief  com- 
missioner. The  chief  commissioner  was  a  great 
believer  in  competition,  wrote  papers  about  it, 
which  he  read  aloud  to  various  bodies  of  the 
civil  service — not  at  all  to  their  delight — which 
he  got  to  be  piintcd  here  and  there,  and  whiclV 
he  sent  by  post  all  over  the  kingdom.  More 
than  once  this  chief  commissioner  had  told  his 
private  secretary  that  they  must  part  company, 
unless  the  private  secretary  could  see  fit  to  alter 
his  view,  or  could,  at  least,  keep  his  views  to 
himself.  But  the  private  secretary  would  do 
neither ;  and  nevertheless,  there  he  was,  still 
private  secretary.  "It's  because  Johnny  has 
got  money,"  said  one  of  the  younijf  clerks,  who 
was  discussing  this  singular  state  of  things  with 
liis  brethren  at  the  office.  "When  a  chap  has 
got  money  he  may  do  what  he  likes.  Johnny 
has  got  lots  of  money,  you  know."  The  young 
clerk  in  question  was  by  no  means  on  intimate 
terms  witli  ]Mr.  Eames,  but  there  had  grown  up 
in  the  office  a  way  of  calling  him  Johnny  behind 
his  back,  which  had  probably  come  down  from 
the  early  days  of  his  scrapes  and  his  poverty. 

Now  the  entire  life  of  Mr.  John  Eames  was 
pervaded  by  a  great  secret ;  and  although  lie 
never,  in  those  days,  alluded  to  the  subject  in 
conversation  with  an}"^  man  belonging  to  the  of- 
fice, yet  the  secret  was  known  to  them  all.  It 
had  been  historical  for  the  last  four  or  five  years, 
and  was  now  regarded  as  a  thing  of  course. 
]Mr.  John  Eames  was  in  love,  and  his  love  was 
not  happy.  He  was  in  love,  and  had  long  been 
in  love,  and  the  lady  of  his  love  was  not  kind 
to  him.  The  little  history  had  grown  to  be 
very  touching  and  pathetic,  having  received,  no 
doubt,  some  embellishments  from  the  imagina- 
tions of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Income-tax  Office. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  had  been  in  love 
from  his  early  boyliood  ;  that  at  sixteen  he  had 
been  engaged,  under  the  sanction  of  the  noble- 
man now  deceased  and  of  the  young  lady's  pa- 
rents ;  that  contracts  of  betrothals  had  been 
drawn  up,  and  tilings  done  very  unusual  in  pri- 
vate families  in  tliese  days  ;  and  tliat  then  there 
had  come  a  stranger  into  tlie  neighborhood  just 
as  the  young  lady  was  beginning  to  reflect  wheth- 
er she  had  a  heart  of  her  own  or  not,  and  that 
she  had  thrown  her  parents,  and  the  noble  lord, 
and  the  contract,  and  poor  Johnny  Eames  to  the 
winds,  and  had —  Here  the  story  took  different 
directions,  as  told  by  different  men.  Some  said 
the  lady  had  gone  oft'  with  the  stranger,  and  that 
there  had  been  a  clandestine  marriage,  which 
afterward  turned  out  to  be  no  marriage  at  all ; 
others,  that  the  stranger  suddenly  took  himself 
off,  and  was  no  more  seen  by  the  young  lady ; 
others,  that  he  owned  at  last  to  having  another 
wife — and  so  on.  Tiie  stranger  was  very  well 
known  to  be  one  Mr.  Crosbie,  belonging  to  aiir- 
other  public  office ;  and  there  were  circumstances 
in  liis  life,  only  half  known,  which  gave  rise  to 
these  various  rumors.  But  there  was  one  thing 
certain,  one  point  as  to  which  no  clerk  in  the 
Income-tax  Office  had  a  dotlbt,  one  fact  which 


had  conduced  much  to  the  high  position  which 
Mr,  John  Eames  now  held  in  the  estimation  of 
his  brother  clerks — he  had  given  this  Mr.  Cros- 
bie such  a  thrashing  that  no  man  had  ever  re- 
ceived such  treatment  before  and  had  lived 
through  it.  Wonderful  stories  were  told  about 
that  tlirashing,  so  tiiat  it  was  believed,  even  by 
the  least  entliusiastic  in  such  matters,  that  the 
poor  victim  had  only  dragged  on  a  crippled  ex- 
istence since  tlie  encounter.  "  Eor  nine  weeks 
he  never  said  a  word  or  ate  a  moutliful,"  said 
one  young  clerk  to  a  younger  clerk  Avho  was  just 
entering  the  office;  "and  even  now  he  can't 
speak  above  a  whisper,  and  has  to  take  all  his 
food  in  pap."  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that 
Mr.  John  Eames  had  about  him  much  of  the 
heroic. 

Tiiat  he  was  still  in  love,  and  in  love  Avith  the 
same  lady,  was  known  to  every  one  in  the  office. 
When  it  was  declared  of  him  that  in  the  way 
of  amatory  expressions  he  had  never  in  liis  life 
opened  his  mouth  to  another  woman,  there  were 
those  in  tlie  office  who  knew  that  this  was  an 
exaggeration.  Mr.  Cradell,  for  instance,  who 
in  his  early  years  had  been  very  intimate  with 
John  Eames,  and  who  still  kept  up  the  old 
friendship — although,  being  a  domestic  man, 
with  a  wife  and  six  young  chiklrcn,  and  living 
on  a  small  income,  he  did  not  go  much  out 
among  his  friends — could  have  told  a  veiy  dif- 
ferent story ;  for  Mrs.  Cradell  herself  had,  in 
days  before  Cradell  had  made  good  his  claim 
upon  her,  been  not  unadmired  by  Cradell's  fel- 
low-clerk. But  the  constancy  of  Mr.  Eames's 
present  love  was  doubted  by  none  who  knew 
him.  It  was  not  that  he  went  about  with  his 
stockings  ungartered,  or  any  of  the  old  acknoAvl- 
edged  signs  of  unrequited  affection.  In  his  man- 
ner he  was  rather  jovial  than  otherwise,  and 
seemed  to  live  a  happy,  somewhat  luxurious  life, 
well  contented  with  himself  and  the  world  around 
him.  But  still  he  had  this  passion  within  his 
bosom,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  was 
a  little  proud  of  his  own  constancy. 

It  might  be  presumed  that  when  Miss  Dale 
wrote  to  her  friend  Grace  Crawley  about  going 
beyond  friendship,  pleading  that  there  were  so 
many  "barriers,"  she  had  probably  seen  her 
way  over  most  of  them.  But  tliis  was  not  so ; 
nor  did  John  Eames  himself  at  all  believe  that 
tlie  barriers  were  in  a  way  to  be  overcome.  I 
will  not  say  that  he  had  given  the  whole  thing 
up  as  a  bad  job,  because  it  was  the  law  of  his 
life  that  the  thing  never  should  be  abandoned  as 
long  as  hope  was  possible.  Unless  Miss  Dale 
should  become  the  wife  of  somebody  else,  he 
would  always  regard  himself  as  affianced  to  her. 
He  had  so  declared  to  IMiss  Dale  herself  and  to 
Miss  Dale's  mother,  and  to  all  the  Dale  people 
who  had  ever  been  interested  in  the  matter. 
And  there  M-as  an  old  lady  living  in  jNIiss  Dale's 
neighborhood,  the  sister  of  the  lord  who  had 
left  Jolmny  Eames  the  bank  shares,  wlio  always 
fought  his  battles  for  him,  and  kejjt  a  close  look- 
out, fully  resolved  that  John  Eames  should  be 
rewarded  at  last.     This  old  ladv  was  connected 


ri 


08 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


with  the  D.-^lcs  bv  family  tics,  and  tliercforc  had 
means  of  dose  ubserviition.  t^lic  was  in  con- 
stant coiTcs[)ondencc  ^vitll  John  Eamcs,  and 
never  failed  to  aeiiuaint  liini  when  any  of  the 
barriers  were,  in  her  judgment,  giving  way. 
The  nature  of  sonic  of  the  barriers  may  jKJSsibly 
be  made  intelligible  to  my  readers  by  the  fol- 
lowing letter  from  Lady  Julia  Do  Guest  to  her 
'      young  friend : 

"Grr.sTwirK  Cottac.e,  —  December,  1SG-. 

"  ^[y  Dkak  John, — I  am  much  obliged  to 
you  for  going  to  Jones's.  I  send  stamps  for  two 
shillings  and  fourpcnce,  which  is  what  I  owe  you. 
It  usctl  only  to  be  two  shillings  and  twojience, 
but  they  say  every  thing  has  got  to  be  dearer 
now.  anil  I  su]i])Ose  ])ills  as  well  as  other  things. 
Only  think  of  rritchard  coming  to  me,  and  say- 
ing she  wanted  her  wages  raised,  after  living 
with  me  for  twenty  years!  I  was  ten/  angry, 
and  scolded  her  roundly ;  but  as  she  acknowl- 
edged she  had  been  wrong,  and  cried  and 
begged  my  pardon,  I  did  give  her  two  guineas 
ii  year  more. 

"I  saw  dear  Lily  just  for  a  moment  on  Sun- 
day, and  upon  my  word  I  think  she  grows  pret- 
.  tier  every  year.  She  had  a  young  friend  with 
her — a  Miss  Crawley — who,  I  believe,  is  the 
cousin  I  have  heard  you  speak  of.  What  is  this 
sad  story  about  her  father,  the  clergyman  ? 
Mind  you  tell  mc  all  about  it. 

"It  is  quite  true  what  I  told  you  about  the 
Dc  Courcys.  Old  Lady  Dc  Courcy  is  in  Lon- 
don, and  Mr.  Crosbie  is  going  to  law  with  her 
about  his  wife's  money.  He  has  been  at  it  in 
one  way  or  the  other  ever  since  jioor  Lady  Al- 
cxandrina  died.  I  wish  she  had  lived  with  all 
my  heart.  For  though  I  feel  sure  that  our  Lily 
will  never  willingly  see  him  again,  yet  the  ti- 
dings of  her  death  disturbed  her,  and  set  her 
thinking  of  things  that  were  fading  from  her 
mind.  I  rated  her  soxmdly,  not  mentioning 
your  name,  however ;  but  she  only  kissed  me, 
and  told  me  in  her  quiet  drolling  way  that  I 
didn't  mean  a  word  of  what  I  said. 

"You  can  come  liere  whenever  yon  ])leasc 
after  the  tenth  of  January.  But  if  you  come 
early  in  January  you  must  go  to  your  mother 
first,  and  come  to  me  for  the  last  week  of  your 
holiday.  Go  to  Blackie's  in  Regent  Street,  and 
bring  mc  down  all  the  colors  in  wool  that  I  or- 
dered. I  said  you  would  call.  And  tell  them 
atDolland's  the  last  spectacles  don't  suit  at  all, 
and  I  won't  keep  them.  They  had  better  send 
me  down,  by  you,  one  or  two  more  pairs  to  try, 
and  you  had  better  see  Smithers  and  Smith,  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  No.  57 — but  you  have 
been  there  before — and  beg  them  to  let  me  know 
how  my  poor  dear  brother's  matters  are  to  be 
settled  at  last.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  I  shall  be 
dead  before  I  shall  know  what  income  I  have 
got  to  spend.  As  to  my  cousins  at  the  manor, 
I  never  see  them ;  and  as  to  talking  to  them 
about  business,  I  should  not  dream  of  it.  She 
hasn't  come  to  me  since  she  first  called,  and  she 
may  bo  quite  sure  I  sha'n't  go  to  her  till  she  does. 


Indeed  I  think  we  shall  like  each  other  apart 
(piite  as  much  as  we  should  together.  So  let 
mc  know  when  you're  coming,  and  j>t-ni/  don't 
forget  to  call  at  Blackie's  ;  nor  yet  at  DoUand's, 
which  is  much  more  important  than  the  wool, 
because  of  my  eyes  getting  so  weak.  But  what 
I  want  you  specially  to  remember  is  about 
Smithers  and  Smith.  How  is  a  woman  to  live 
if  she  doesn't  know  how  much  she  has  got  to 
spend  ? 

"Believe  me  to  be,  my  dear  John, 

"  Your  most  sincere  friend, 

"Julia  De  Guest." 

Lady  Julia  always  directed  her  letters  for 
her  young  friend  to  his  office,  and  there  he  re- 
ceived the  one  now  given  to  the  reader.  When 
he  had  read  it  he  made  a  memorandum  as  to 
the  commissions,  and  then  threw  himself  back 
in  his  arm-chair  to  think  over  the  tidings  com- 
municated to  him.  All  the  facts  stated  he  had 
known  before ;  that  Lady  Dc  Courcy  was  in 
London,  and  that  her  son-in-law,  Mr.  Crosbie, 
whose  wife — Lady  Alexandrina — had  died  some 
twelve  months  since  at  Baden  Baden,  was  at 
variance  with  her  respecting  money  which  he 
supposed  to  be  due  to  him.  But  there  was  that 
in  Lady  Julia's  letter  which  was  wormwood  to 
him.  Lily  Dale  was  again  thinking  of  this 
man,  whom  she  had  loved  in  old  days,  and  who 
had  treated  her  with  monstrous  perfidy !  It 
was  all  very  well  for  Lady  Julia  to  be  sure  that 
Lily  Dale  would  never  desire  to  see  JMr.  Crosbio 
again  ;  but  John  Eames  was  by  no  means  equal- 
ly certain  that  it  would  be  so.  "  The  tidings 
of  her  death  disturbed  her!"  said  Johnny,  re- 
peating to  himself  certain  words  out  of  the  old 
lady's  letter.  "  I  know  they  disturbed  me.  I 
wish  she  could  have  lived  forever.  If  he  ever 
ventures  to  show  himself  within  ten  miles  of 
Allington,  I'll  see  if  I  can  not  do  better  than  I 
did  the  last  time  I  met  him  !"  Then  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  private  sec- 
retary, finding  himself  to  lie  somewhat  annoyed 
by  the  disturbance  at  such  a  moment,  bade  the 
intruder  enter  in  an  angry  voice.  "  Oh,  it's 
.you,  Cradell,  is  it?  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 
'l\Ir.  Cradell,  who  now  entered,  and  who,  as  be- 
fore said,  was  an  old  ally  of  John  Eames,  was 
a  clerk  of  longer  standing  in  the  department 
than  his  friend.  In  age  he  looked  to  be  much 
older,  and  he  had  left  with  him  none  of  that  ap- 
pearance of  the  gloss  of  youth  which  will  stick 
for  many  years  to  men  who  are  fortunate  in 
their  worldly  affairs.  Indeed  it  may  be  said 
that  Mr.  Cradell  was  almost  shabby  in  his  out- 
ward appearance,  and  his  brow  seemed  to  be 
laden  with  care,  and  his  eyes  were  dull  and 
heavy. 

"  I  thought  I'd  just  come  in  and  ask  you  hQ\v 
you  are,"  said  Cradell. 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you;  and  how  are 
you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  pretty  well — in  health,  that  is. 
You  see  one  has  so  many  things  to  think  of 
when  one  has  a  large  family.     Upon  my  word, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET: 


69 


Johnny,  I  tliiiik  you've  been  lucky  to  keep  out 
of  it." 

"I  havckei>toutof  it,  at  any  rate;  haven't  I?" 

"Of  course;  living  with  you  as  much  as  I 
'  used  to  do,  I  know  the  wliole  story  of  what  has 
kept  you  single." 

"Don't  mind  about  that,  Cradell;  what  is  it 
you  want  ?" 

"I  mustn't  let  you  suppose,  Johnny,  that  I'm 
grumbling  about  my  lot.  Nobody  knows  better 
than  you  what  a  trump  I  got  in  my  wife." 

"Of  course  you  did — an  excellent  woman." 

"  And  if  I  cut  you  out  a  little  there,  I'm  sure 
you  never  felt  malice  against  me  for  that." 

"Never  for  a  moment,  old  fellow!" 

"We  all  have  our  luck,  you  know." 

"Your  luck  has  been  a  wife  and  family.  My 
luck  has  been  to  he  a  bachelor." 

'  •  You  may  say  a  family, ''  said  Cradell.  ' '  I'm 
sure  that  Amelia  does  the  best  she  can  ;  but  we 
are  desperately  pushed  sometimes — desperately 
puslied.  I  never  was  so  bad,  Johnny,  as  I  am 
now." 

"  So  yon  said  the  last  time." 

"Did  I?  I  don't  remember  it.  I  didn't 
think  I  was  so  bad  then.  But,  Johnny,  if  you 
can  I'Jt  me  have  one  more  fiver  now  I  have  made 
arrangements  with  Amelia  how  I'm  to  pay  you 
off  by  thirty  shillings  a  month — as  I  get  my  sal- 
arv.     Indeed  I  have.     A'^k  her  else."  , 

""I'll  be  shot  if  I  do."  ' 

"  Don't  say  that,  Johnny." 

"It's  no  good  your  Johnnying  me,  for  I  won't 
be  Johnnyed  out  of  another  shilling.  It  comes 
too  often,  and  there's  no  reason  why  I  should  da 
it.  And  what's  more,  I  can't  afford  it.  I've 
pco]ile  of  my  own  to  help." 

"  Bat  oh,  Jolinny,  we  all  know  how  comfort- 
able you  are.  And  I'm  sure  no  one  rejoiced  as 
I  I  did  when  the  money  was  left  to  you.  If  it 
;  had  been  myself  I  could  hardly  have  thought 
more  of  it.  Upon  my  solemn  word  and  honor 
if  you'll  let  me  have  it  this  time  it  shall  be  the 
last." 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor  then,  I  won't. 
There  must  be  an  end  to  every  thing." 

Although  Mr.  Cradell  would  probably,  if 
pressed,  have  admitted  the  truth  of  this  last  as- 
sertion, he  did  not  seem  to  think  that  the  end 
had  as  yet  come  to  his  friend's  benevolence.  It 
certainly  had  not  come  to  his  own  importunity. 
'  "Don't  say  that,  Johnny;  pray  don't." 

"  But  I  do  say  it."    • 

"  When  I  told  Amelia  yesterday  evening  that 
1  I  didn't  like  to  go  to  you  again,  because  of 
cours3  a  man  has  feelings,  she  told  me  to  men- 
tion her  name.  'I'm  sure  he'd  do  it  for  my 
sake,'  she  said." 

"I  don't  believe  she  said  any  thing  of  the 
kind." 

"  Ujjon  my  word  she  dil.     You  ask  her.'' 

"And  if  she  did  she  oughtn't  to  have  said 
it." 

"  Oh,  Johnny,  don't  speak  in  that  way  of  her. 
She's  my  wife,  and  you  know  what  your  own 
feelings  were  once.     But  look  here — we  are  in 


that  state  at  home  at  this  moment  that  I  must 
get  money  somewhere  before  I  go  home.  I 
must,  indeed.  If  you'll  let  me  have  three 
pounds  this  once  I'll  never  ask  you  again.  I'll 
give  you  a  written  promise  if  you  like,  and  I'll 
l)ledge  myself  to  pay  it  back  by  thirty  shillings 
a  time  out  of  the  two  next  months'  salary.  I 
will,  indeed."  And  then  Mr.  Cradell  began  to 
cry.  But  when  Johnny  at  last  took  out  his 
check-book  and  wrote  a  clieck  for  three  pounds 
Mr.  Cradell's  eyes  glistened  with  joy.  "Upon 
my  word  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you !  You 
are  the  best  fellow  that  ever  lived.  And  Amelia 
will  say  the  same  when  she  hears  of  it." 

"I  don't  believe  she'll  say  any  thing  of  tlie 
kind,  Cradell.  If  I  remember  any  thing  of  her 
she  has  a  stouter  heart  than  that."  Cradell 
admitted  that  his  wife  had  a  stouter  heart  than 
himself,  and  then  made  his  way  back  to  his  own 
part  of  the  office. 

This  little  interruption  to  tlie  current  of  Mr. 
Eames's  thoughts  was,  I  think,  for  the  good  of 
the  service,  as  immediately  on  his  friend's  depart- 
ure he  went  to  liis  Avork ;  wliereas,  had  not  ho 
been  thus  called  away  from  his  reflections  about 
Miss  Dale,  he  would  have  sat  thinking  about  her 
affairs  probably  for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  As 
it  was,  he  really  did  write  a  dozen  notes  in  an- 
swer to  as  many  private  letters  addressed  to  his 
chief.  Sir  Raffle  Buffle,  in  all  of  which  he  made 
excellently-worded  false  excuses  for  the  non-per- 
formance of  various  requests  made  to  Sir  Raffle 
by  the  writers.  "He's  about  the  best  hand  at 
it  that  I  know,"  said  Sir  Raffle  one  day  to  the 
secretary;  "otherwise  you  may  be  sure  I 
shouldn't  keep  him  there."  "  I  will  allow  that 
he  is  clever, "  said  the  secretary.  "  It  isn't  clev- 
erness so  much  as  tact.  It's  what  I  call  tact. 
I  hadn't  been  long  in  the  service  before  I  mas- 
tered it  myself;  and  now  that  I've  been  at  the 
trouble  to  teach  him  I  don't  want  to  have  the 
trouble  to  teach  another.  But  upon  my  word 
he  must  mind  his  //s  and  5's ;  upon  my  word  he 
must ;  and  you  had  better  tell  him  so."  "The 
fact  is,  Mr.  Kissing,"  said  tiie  private  secretary 
the  next  day  to  the  secretary — Mr.  Kissing  was 
at  that  time  secretary  to  the  boaitl  of  commis- 
sioners for  the  receipt  of  income  tax — "the 
fact  is,  Mr.  Kissing,  Sir  Raffle  should  never  at- 
tempt to  write  a  letter  himself.  He  doesn't 
know  how  to  do  it.  He  always  says  twice  too 
much,  and  yet  not  half  enough.  I  wish  you'd 
tell  him  so.  He  won't  believe  me."  From 
which  it  will  be  seen  Mr.  Fames  was  proud  of 
his  special  accomplishment,  but  did  not  feel  any 
gratitude  to  the  master  who  assumed  to  himself 
the  glory  of  having  taught  him.  On  tlie  pres- 
ent occasion  John  Eames  wi-ote  all  his  letters 
before  he  tliought  again  of  Lily  Dale,  and  was 
able  to  write  them  without  interrujjtion,  as  the 
chairman  was  absent  for  the  day  at  the  Treasury 
: — or  perhaps  at  his  club.  Then,  when  he  had 
finished,  he  rang  his  bell,  and  ordered  some 
sherry  and  soda-water,  and  stretched  himself 
before  the  fire — as  though  his  exertions  in  the 
public  service  had  been  very  great — and  seated 


70 


THE  LAST  CITRONICLE  OF  EARSET. 


himself  comfortably  in  his  avm-chair,  and  lit  a 
cigar,  and  aguin  took  ont  Lady  Julia's  letter. 

As  re^'arded  tlie  cij^ar,  it  may  be  said  that  both 
Sir  Kallic  and  !Mr.  Kissing  had  given  orders  that 
on  110  account  should  cigars  be  lit  within  the 
precincts  of  the  Liconic-tax  Otlice.  Mr.  Eames 
liad  taken  ujjon  himself  to  understand  that  such 
orders  did  not  ai)i)ly  to  a  ))rivate  secretary,  and 
was  well  aware  that  Sir  Kallie  knew  his  habit. 
To  Mv.  Kissing,  I  regret  to  say,  he  put  himself 
in  oj)i)Osition  whenever  and  wlierever  oi)iK)sition 
was  jiossiblc ;  so  that  men  in  the  ofiicc  said  that 
one  of  the  two  must  go  at  last.  "  IJut  Johnny 
can  do  any  tiling,  you  know,  because  he  has  got 
money."  That  was  too  frequently  the  oi)inion 
finally  expressed  among  the  men. 

So  Jolm  Eames  sat  down,  and  drank  his  soda- 
water,  and  smoked  his  cigar,  and  read  his  letter ; 
or  rather  siin]>h'  tliat  paragraph  of  the  letter 
wliicli  referred  to  Mi-ss  Dale.  "The  tidings  of 
her  death  have  disturbed  her,  and  set  her  think- 
ing again  of  things  that  Mere  fading  from  her 
mind."  lie  understood  it  all.  And  yet  how 
could  it  possibly  be  so  ?  How  could  it  b3  that 
she  should  not  despise  a  man — despise  him  if 
she  did  not  hate  him — who  had  behaved  as  this 
man  had  behaved  to  her?  It  was  now  four 
years  since  this  Crosbic  had  been  engaged  to 
Jliss  Dale,  and  had  jilted  her  so  heartlessly  as 
to  incur  the  disgust  of  every  man  in  London 
who  had  heard  the  story.  lie  had  married  an 
carl's  daughter,  who  had  left  him  within  a  few 
months  of  their  marriage,  and  now  JMr.  Cros- 
bie's  noble  wife  was  dead.  The  wife  was  dead  ; 
and  simply  because  tlie  man  was  free  again,  he, 
John  Eames,  was  to  be  told  that  JNIiss  Dale's 
mind  was  "disturbed,"  and  that  her  thoughts 
were  going  back  to  things  which  had  faded  from 
her  memory,  and  which  should  have  been  long 
since  banished  altogether  from  such  holy  ground. 

If  Lily  Dale  were  now  to  marry  Mr.  Crosbie, 
any  thing  so  perversely  cruel  as  the  fate  of  John 
Eames  would  never  yet  have  been  told  in  ro- 
mance. Tiiat  was  his  own  idea  on  the  matter 
as  he  sat  smoking  his  cigar.  I  have  said  that 
he  was  proud  of  his  constancy,  and  yet,  in  some 
sort,  he  was  also  ashamed  of  it.  He  acknowl- 
edged the  fact  of  his  love,  and  believed  himself 
to  have  out-Jacobed  Jacob ;  but  he  felt  that  it 
Avas  liard  for  a  man  who  had  risen  in  the  world 
as  lie  had  done  to  be  made  a  jilaything  of  by  a 
foolisli  passion.  It  was  now  four  years  ago — 
that  affair  of  Crosbie — and  Miss  Dale  should 
have  accepted  him  long  since.  Half  a  dozen 
times  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  very  stern 
to  her;  and  he  had  written  somewhat  sternly — 
but  the  first  moment  tliat  he  saw  her  he  was  con- 
quered again.  "And  now  that  brute  will  re- 
appear, and  every  thing  will  be  wrong  again," 
he  said  to  himself.  If  the  brute  did  reappear, 
something  should  ha]3peu  of  which  the  world 
should  hear  the  tidings.  So  he  lit  another  ci- 
gar, and  began  to  think  what  tliat  something 
should  be. 

As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  loud  noise,  as  of 
harsh,  rattling  winds  in  the  next  room,  and  ho 


knew  that  Sir  Raffle  had  come  back  from  the 
Treasury.  There  was  a  creaking  of  boots,  and 
a  knocking  of  chairs,  and  a  ringing  of  bells,  and 
then  a  loud,  angry  voice — a  voice  that  was  very 
harsh,  and  on  this  occasion  very  angry.  Why 
had  not  his  twelve  o'clock  letters  been  sent  up 
to  liim  to  the  West  End?  Why  not?  Mr. 
Eames  knew  all  about  it.  Why  did  Mr.  Eames 
know  all  about  it?  Why  had  not  Mr.  Eames 
sent  them  up ?  Where  was  Mr.  Eames ?  Let 
Mr.  Eames  be  sent  to  him.  All  which  Mr. 
Eames  heard  standing  with  the  cigar  in  his 
mouth  and  his  back  to  the  fire.  "Somebody 
has  been  bullying  old  Buflle,  I  su])pose.  After 
all  he  has  been  at  the  Treasury  to-day,"  said 
Eames  to  himself.  But  he  did  not  stir  till  the 
messenger  had  been  to  him,  nor  even  then  at 
once.  "  All  right,  Rafterty,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  go 
in  just  now."  Tiien  he  took  half  a  dozen  more 
whiffs  from  the  cigar,  threw  the  remainder  into 
the  fii-e,  and  opened  the  door  which  communi- 
cated between  liis  room  and  Sir  RatHe's. 

The  great  man  was  standing  with  two  un- 
opened epistles  in  his  hand.  "Eames,"  said 
he,  "  here  are  letters — "  Then  he  stopped  him- 
self, and  began  upon  another  subject.  "Did  I 
not  give  express  orders  that  I  would  have  no 
smoking  in  the  office?" 

"I  tliink  Mr.  Kissing  said  something  about 
it,  Sir." 

"  Mr.  Kissing !  It  was  not  Mr.  Kissing  at  all. 
It  was  I.     I  gave  the  order  myself." 

"You'll  find  it  began  with  Mr.  Kissing." 

"It  did  not  begin  with  Mr.  Kissing;  it  be- 
gan and  ended  with  me.  What  are  you  going 
tO  do,  Sir?"  John  Eames  had  stepped  toward 
the  bell,  and  his  hand  was  already  on  the  bell- 
pull. 

"I  was  going  to  ring  for  the  papers.  Sir." 

"And  wlio  told  you  to  ring  for  the  papers? 
I  don't  want  the  papers.  The  papers  won't  show 
any  thing.  I  suppose  my  word  may  be  taken 
without  the  papers.  Since  you're  so  fond  of 
Mr.  Kissing — " 

"I'm  not  fond  of  Mr.  Kissing  at  all." 

"You'll  have  to  go  back  to  him,  and  let  some- 
body come  here  who  will  not  be  too  independent 
to  obey  my  orders.  Here  are  two  most  import- 
ant letters  have  been  lying  here  all  day,  instead 
of  being  sent  up  to  me  at  the  Treasury." 

"Of  course  tliey  have  been  lying  there.  I 
thought  you  were  at  the  club." 

"I  told  you  I  should'go  to  the  Treasury.  I 
have  been  there  all  the  morning  with  the  chan- 
cellor"— when  Sir  Raffle  spoke  officially  of  the 
chancellor  he  was  not  supposed  to  mean  the 
Lord  Chancellor — "and  here  I  find  letters  which 
I  particularly  wanted  lying  upon  my  desk  now. 
I  must  put  an  end  to  this  kind  of  thing.  I 
must,  indeed.  If  you  like  the  outer  office  bet- 
ter say  so  at  once,  and  you  can  go." 

"I'll  think  about  it.  Sir  Raffle." 

"Think  about  it!  W^hat  do  you  mean  by 
tliinking  about  it?  But  I  can't  talk  about  that 
now.  I'm  very  busy,  and  shall  be  here  till  past 
seven.     I  suppose  you  can  stay  ?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


71 


"  All  night,  if  you  wish  it,  Sir." 

"  Very  ■well.  That  will  do  for  the  present. 
I  wouldn't  have  had  these  letters  delayed  for 
twenty  pounds." 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  mattered  one 
straw  if  botii  of  them  I'emained  unopened  till 
next  week."  This  last  little  speecli,  however, 
was  not  made  aloud  to  Sir  RafHe,  but  by  Johnny 
to  himself  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  room. 

Very  soon  after  that  he  went  away,  Sir  Raffle 
having  discovered  that  one  of  the  letters  in  ques- 
tion required  his  immediate  return  to  the  West 
End.  "  I've  changed  my  mind  about  staying. 
I  sha'n't  stay  now.  I  should  have  done  if  these 
letters  had  reached  me  as  they  ought." 

"Then  I  suppose  I  can  go?" 

"You  can  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  said 
Sir  Raffle. 

Eames  did  do  as  he  liked,  and  went  home,  or 
to  his  club ;  and  as  he  went  he  resolved  that  he 
would  put  an  end,  and  at  once,  to  tlie  present 
trouble  of  his  life.  Lily  Dale  should  accept 
him  or  reject  him ;  and,  taking  either  the  one 
or  the  other  alternative,  she  should  hear  a  bit 
of  his  mind  plainly  spoken. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


DOAVN    AT    ALLIXGTON. 


It  was  Christmas  time  down  at  Allington, 
and  at  three  o'clock  on  Christmas-eve,  just  a^ 
the  darkness  of  the  early  winter  evening  was 
coming  on,  Lily  Dale  and  Grace  Crawley  were 
seated  together,  one  above  the  other,  on  the  steps 
leading  up  to  the  pulpit  in  Allington  Church. 
They  had  been  working  all  day  at  the  deco- 
rations of  the  church,  and  they  were  now  look- 
ing round  them  at  the  result  of  their  handi- 
work. To  an  eye  unused  to  the  gloom  the 
place  would  have  been  nearly  dark ;  but  they 
could  see  every  corner  turned  by  the  ivy  sprigs, 
and  every  line  on  which  the  holly-leaves  were 
shining.  And  the  greeneries  of  the  winter  had 
not  been  stuck  up  in  the  old-fashioned,  idle  way, 
a  bough  just  fastened  up  here  and  a  twig  insert- 
ed there ;  but  every  thing  had  been  done  with 
some  meaning,  with  some  thought  toward  the 
original  architecture  of  the  building.  Tiie  Goth- 
ic lines  had  been  followed,  and  all  the  lower 
arches  which  it  had  been  possible  to  reach  with 
an  ordinary  ladder  had  been  turned  as  truly 
with  the  laurel  cuttings  as  they  had  been  turned 
originally  with  the  stone. 

"  I  wouldn't  tie  another  twig,"  said  the  elder 
girl,  "for  all  the  Christmas  pudding  that  was 
ever  boiled." 

"It's  lucky  then  that  there  isn't  another  twig 
to  tie." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  see  a  score  of 
places  where  the  work  has  been  scamped.  This 
is  the  sixth  time  I  have  done  the  church,  and  I 
don't  think  I'll  ever  do  it  again.  AVhen  we 
first  began  it.  Bell  and  I,  you  know — before  Bell 
■was  n;arried— Mrs.  Boyce,  and  the  Boycian  es- 


tablishment generally,  used  to  come  and  help. 
Or  rather  we  used  to  hcl]>  her.  Now  she  hardly 
ever  looks  after  it  at  all." 

"  She  is  older,  I  suppose." 

"  She's  a  little  older,  and  a  deal  idler.  How 
idle  people  do  get!  Look  at  him.  Since  he  has 
had  a  curate  he  hardly  ever  stirs  round  the  par- 
ish. And  he  is  getting  so  fat  that —  II — sh  ! 
Here  she  is  herself — come  to  give  her  judgment 
upon  us."  Then  a  stout  lady,  the  wife  of  the 
vicar,  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle.  "Well, 
girls,"  she  said,  "you  have  worked  hard,  and  I 
am  sm-e  Mv.  Boyce  will  be  A-ery  much  obliged 
to  you." 

"  Mr.  Boyce,  indeed  !"  said  Lily  Dale.  "We 
shall  expect  the  whole  parish  to  rise  from  their 
seats  and  thank  us.  Why  didn't  Jane  and  Bessy 
come  and  help  us?" 

"They  were  so  tired  when  they  came  in  from 
the  coal  club.  Besides,  they  don't  care  for  this 
kind  of  thing — not  as  you  do." 

"  Jane  is  utilitarian  to  the  back-bone,  I  know," 
said  Lily,  "and  Bessy  doesn't  like  getting  up 
ladders." 

"As  for  ladders,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  defend- 
ing her  daughter,  "  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
Bessy  isn't  right.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  did  all  those  in  the  capitals  yourself?" 

"Every  twig,  with  Hopkins  to  hold  the  lad- 
der and  cut  the  sticks ;  and  as  Hopkins  is  just  a 
hundred  and  one  years  old  we  could  have  done 
it  pretty  nearly  as  well  alone." 

"I  do  not  think  that,"  said  Grace. 

"He  has  been  grumbling  all  the  time,"  said 
Lily,  "and  swears  he  never  will  have  the  laurels 
so  robbed  again.  Eire  or  six  years  ago  he  used 
to  declare  that  death  would  certainly  save  him 
from  the  pain  of  such  another  desecration  before 
the  next  Christmas ;  but  he  has  given  up  that 
foolish  notion  now,  and.  talks  as  though  he 
meant  to  protect  the  Allington  shrubs  at  any 
rate  to  the  end  of  this  century." 

"I  am  sure  we  gave  our  share  from  the  par- 
sonage," said  Mrs.  Boyce,  who  never  understood 
a  joke. 

"  All  the  best  came  from  the  parsonage,  as  of 
course  they  ought,"  said  Lily.  "But  Hopkins 
had  to  make  up  the  deficiency.  And  as  my 
uncle  told  him  to  take  the  hay-cart  for  them  in- 
stead of  the  hand-barrow,  he  is  broken-hearted." 

"I  am  sure  he  was  very  good-natured,"  said 
Grace. 

"Nevertheless  he  is  broken-hearted;  and  I 
am  very  good-natured  too,  and  I  am  broken- 
backed.  Who  is  going  to  preach  to-morrow 
morning,  Mrs.  Boyce?" 

"Mr.  Swanton  will  preach  in  the  morning." 

"Tell  him  not  to  be  long,  because  of  the 
children's  pudding.  Tell  IMr.  Boyce  if  he  is 
long  we  won't  any  of  us  come  next  Sund.iy." 

"jNIy  dear,  how  can  you  say  such  wicked 
things!  I  shall  not  tell  him  any  thing  of  the 
kind." 

"That's  not  wicked,  Mrs.  Boyce.  If  I  were 
to  say  I  had  eaten  so  much  lunch  that  I  didn't 
want  any  dinner  you'd   understand  that.     If 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


^Ir.  Swaiiton  will  preach  for  tlircc-quartcrs  of  an  '  who  take  upon  tliemsclvcs  semi-clerical  duties. 
hour — "  And  it  is  natural  that  it  should  be  so  ;  for  is  it 

"He  only  preached  for  three-quarters  of  an    not  said  that  familiarity  docs  breed  contempt? 


hour  once,  Lily 

"  lie  has  been  over  the  half-hour  every  Sun- 
day since  he  has  been  here.  His  average  is 
over  forty  minutes,  and  I  say  it's  a  shame." 

"It  is  not  a  shame  at  all,  Lily,"  said  Mrs. 
Boyce,  becoming  very  serious. 

"  Look  at  my  uncle  ;  he  doesn't  like  to  po  to 
sleep,  and  he  has  to  sutler  a  ])nrgatory  in  keep- 
ing himself  awake." 

"  If  your  uncle  is  heavy  how  can  Mr.  Swan- 
ton  hcl])  it?  If  Mr.  Dale's  minJ  were  en  the 
subject  he  would  not  sleep." 

"Come,  Mrs.  Boycc ;  there's  somebody  else 
.sleeps  sometimes  besides  my  uncle.  When  Mr. 
Boycc  ]Hits  up  his  fin;j;er  and  just  touches  his 
nose  I  know  as  well  as  possible  why  he  does  it." 

"  Lily  Dale,  you  have  no  business  to  say  so. 
It  is  not  true.  I  don't  know  how  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  talk  in  that  way  of  your  own  clergy- 
man. If  I  were  to  tell  your  mamma  she  would 
be  shocked." 

"You  won't  be  so  ill-natured,  Mrs.  Boycc — 
after  all  that  I've  done  for  the  church." 

"  If  you'd  think  more  about  the  clergyman, 
Lil}',  and  less  about  the  church,"  said  Mrs. 
Boyce,  very  sententiously — "more  about  the 
matter  and  less  about  the  manner,  more  of  the 
reality  and  less  of  the  form — I  think  you'd  find 
that  your  religion  would  go  further  with  you. 
Miss  Cr.awley  is  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman, 
and  I'm  sure  she'll  agree  with  me." 

"  If  she  agrees  with  any  body  in  scolding  me 
I'll  quarrel  with  her." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  scold  you,  Lily." 

"  I  don't  mind  it  from  you,  Mrs.  Boycc.  In- 
deed, I  rather  like  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  pastoral 
visitation ;  and  as  Mr.  Boycc  never  scolds  me 
liimself,  of  course  I  take  it  as  coming  from  him 
by  attorney."  Then  there  was  silence  for  a 
minute  or  two,  during  which  Mrs.  Boycc  was 
endeavoring  to  discover  whether  Miss  Dale  was 
laughing  at  her  or  not.  As  she  was  not  quite 
certain  slie  thought  at  last  that  she  would  let 
the  suspected  fault  pass  unobserved.  "Don't 
wait  for  us,  INIrs.  Boyce,"  said  Lily.  "  We  must 
remain  till  Hopkins  has  sent  Gregory  to  sweep 
the  church  out  and  take  away  the  rubbish.  We'll 
see  tliat  the  key  is  left  at  Mrs.  Giles's." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  Then  I  may  as  well 
go.  I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  that  it  was 
all  right.  I'm  sure  Mr.  Boyce  will  be  very 
much  obliged  to  you  and  Miss  Crawley.  Good- 
night, my  dear." 


When  a  parson  takes  his  lay  fiiend  over  his 
church  on  a  week-day,  how  much  less  of  the  sf>irit 
of  genuflection  and  head-uncovering  the  clergy- 
man will  dis])lay  than  the  layman  !  The  parson 
pulls  about  the  wood-work  and  knocks  about  the 
stone-work  as  though  it  were  mere  wood  and 
stone ;  and  talks  aloud  in  the  aisle,  and  treats 
even  the  reading-desk  as  a  common  thing; 
whereas  the  visitor  whispers  gently,  and  carries 
himself  as  though  even  in  looking  at  a  church 
he  was  bound  to  regard  himself  as  performing 
some  service  that  was  half  divine.  Now  Lily 
Dale  and  Grace  Crawley  were  both  accustomed 
to  churches,  and  had  been  so  long  at  work  in  this 
church  for  the  last  two  days  that  the  building 
had  lost  to  them  much  of  its  sacredness,  and 
they  were  almost  as  irreverent  as  though  they 
were  two  curates. 

' '  I  am  so  glad  she  has  gone, "  said  Lily.  ' '  We 
shall  have  to  stop  here  for  the  next  hour,  as 
Gregory  won't  know  what  to  take  away  and 
what  to  leave.  I  was  so  afraid  she  was  going 
to  stop  and  see  us  off  the  ))reniises." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  dislike  her." 

"  I  don't  dislike  her.  I  like  her  very  well," 
said  Lily  Dale.  "But  don't  you  feel  that  there 
are  people  whom  one  knows  very  intimately, 
who  are  really  friends— for  whom  if  they  were 
dying  one  would  grieve,  whom  if  they  were  in 
misfortune  one  would  go  far  to  help,  but  with 
whom  for  all  tiiat  one  can  have  no  sympathy? 
And  yet  they  are  so  near  to  one  that  they  know 
all  the  events  of  one's  life,  and  are  justified  by 
unquestioned  friendship  in  talking  about  things 
which  should  never  be  mentioned  except  where 
sympathy  exists." 

"Yes;  I  understand  that." 

"Every  body  understands  it  who  has  been' 
unhappy.  That  woman  sometimes  says  things 
to  me  that  makes  me  wish — wish  tliat  they'd 
make  him  bishop  of  Patagonia.  And  yet  she 
does  it  all  in  friendship,  and  mamma  says  that 
she  is  quite  right." 

"  I  like  her  for  standing  up  for  her  husband." 

"But  he  docs  go  to  sleep — and  then  he 
scratches  his  nose  to  show  that  he's  awake.  I 
shouldn't  have  said  it,  only  she  is  always  hint- 
ing at  uncle  Christopher.  Uncle  Christopher 
certainly  does  go  to  sleep  when  Mr.  Boycc 
preaches,  and  he  hasn't  studied  any  scientific 
little  movements  during  his  slumbers  to  make 
the  jjeople  believe  that  he's  all  alive.  I  gave 
him  a  hint  one  da}',  and  he  got  so  angry  with 


Good-night,  Mrs.  Boyce;  and  be  sure  you  me  I" 
don't  let  Mr.  Swanton  be  long  to-morrow."  To  |  "I  shouldn't  have  thought  he  could  have 
this  parting  shot  Mrs.  Boyce  made  no  rejoinder;  been  angry  with  yon.  It  seems  to  me  from 
but  she  hurried  out  of  the  church  somewhat  the  |  what  you  say  that  you  may  do  Avhatcver  you 
quicker  for  it,  and  closed  the  door  after  her  with  '  please  with  him." 


something  of  a  slam. 

Of  all  persons  clergymen  are  the  most  irrev- 
erent in  the  handling  of  things  supposed  to  be 
sacred,  and  next  to  them  clergymen's  wives, 
and  after  them  those  other  ladies,  old  or  young, 


"He  is  very  good  to  me.  If  you  know  it 
all — if  you  could  understand  how  good  he  has 
been!  I'll  try  and  tell  you  some  day.  It  is 
not  what  he  has  done  that  makes  me  love  him 
so — but  what   he  has  thoroughly  understood, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


73 


and  what,  so  understanding,  he  has  not  done, 
and  what  he  has  not  said.  It  is  a  case  of  sym- 
patliy.  If  ever  there  was  a  gentleman  uncle 
Christopher  is  one.  And  I  used  to  dislike  hii^ 
so  at  one  time!" 

"And  why?" 

"ChicHy  because  he  would  make  me  wear 
Lrown  frocks  when  I  wanted  to  have  them  pink 
or  green.  And  he  kept  me  for  six  months  from 
having  them  long,  and  up  to  this  day  he  scolds 
me  if  there  is  half  an  inch  on  the  ground  for 
iiiin  to  tread  upon." 

"  I  sliouldn't  mind  that  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  don't — not  now.  But  it  used  to  be  se- 
rious when  I  was  a  young  girl.  And  we  thought, 
Bell  and  I,  that  he  was  cross  to  mamma.  He 
and  mamma  didn't  agree  at  first,  you  know,  as 
they  do  now.  It  is  quite  true  that  he  did  dis- 
like mamma  when  we  first  came  here." 

"I  can't  think  how  any  body  could  ever  dis- 
like Mrs.  Dale." 

"  But  he  did.  And  then  he  wanted  to  make 
up  a  marriage  between  Bell  and  my  cousin  Ber- 
nard. But  neither  of  them  cared  a  bit  for  thq 
other,  and  then  he  used  to  scold  them — and 
then — and  tlien — and  then — Oh,  he  was  so  good 
to  me !  Here's  Gregory  at  last.  Gregory, 
we've  been  waiting  this  hour  and  a  half." 

"It  aiu't  ten  minutes  since  Hopkins  let  me 
come  with  the  barrows,  miss." 

"  Then  Hopkins  is  a  traitor.  Never  mind. 
You'd  better  begin  now — up  there  at  the  steps. 
It'll  be  quite  dark  in  a  few  minutes.  Here's 
IMrs.  Giles  with  her  broom.  Come,  Mrs.  Giles  ; 
we  shall  liave  to  pass  the  night  here  if  you  don't 
make  haste.     Are  you  cold,  Grace?" 

"  No ;  I'm  not  cold.  I'm  thinking  what  they 
are  doing  now  in  the  church  at  Ilogglestock. " 

"  The  Ilogglestock  church  is  not  pretty — like 
this  ?" 

"  Oh  no.  It  is  a  very  plain  brick  building, 
witli  something  like  a  pigeon-house  for  a  belfry. 
,  And  the  pulpit  is  over  the  reading-desk,  and 
the  reading-desk  over  the  clerk,  so  that  papa, 
when  he  preaches,  is  nearly  up  to  the  ceiling. 
And  the  whole  place  is  divided  into  pews,  in 
which  the  farmers  hide  themselves  when  they 
come  to  church." 

"  So  tiiat  nobody  can  see  whether  they  go  to 
sleep  or  no.  Oli,  ilrs.  Giles,  you  mustn't  pull 
that  down.  That's  what  we  have  been  putting 
up  all  day." 

"But  it  be  in   the  way,  miss;  so  that  the 
I  minister  can't  budge  in  or  out  o'  the  door." 
'        "  Never  mind.     Then  he  must  stay  one  side 
or  the  other.     That  would  be  too  much  after  all 
I  our  trouble!"     And  Miss  Dale  hurried  across 
the  chancel  to  save  some  prettily  arching  boughs, 
whicli,  in  the  judgment  of  Mrs.  Giles,  encroach- 
ed too  mncli  on  the  vestry  door.      "  As  if  it  sig- 
nified which  side  he  was,"  she  said  in  a  whisper 
to  Grace. 

"I  don't  suppose  they'll  have  any  thing  in 
the  church  at  home,"  said  Grace. 

"  Somebody  will  stick  up  a  wreath  or  two,  I 
dare  sav." 

E 


"  Nobody  will.  There  never  is  any  body  at 
Ilogglestock  to  stick  up  wreaths,  or  to  do  any 
thing  for  the  prettinesses  of  life.  And  now 
there  will  be  less  done  than  ever.  How  can 
mamma  look  after  holly-leaves  in  her  present 
state  ?  And  yet  she  will  nuss  them,  too.  Poor 
mamma  sees  very  little  that  Is  jjretty ;  but  she 
has  not  forgotten  how  pleasant  pretty  things 
are." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  your  mother,  Grace." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  impossible  for  any  one 
to  know  mamma  now — for  any  one  who  had  not 
known  her  before.  She  never  makes  even  a 
new  acquaintance.  She  seems  to  think  that 
there  is  nothing  left  for  her  in  the  world  but  to 
try  and  keep  papa  out  of  misery.  And  she 
does  not  succeed  in  that.     Poor  papa!" 

"  Is  he  very  unhappy  about  this  wicked  ac- 
cusation ?" 

"Yes;  he  is  very  unhappy.  But,  Lily,  I 
don't  know  about  its  being  wicked." 

"  But  you  know  that  it  is  untrue." 

"Of  course  I  know  that  papa  did  not  mean 
to  take  any  thing  that  was  not  his  own.  But, 
you  see,  nobody  knows  where  it  came  from  ; 
and  nobody  except  mamma  and  Jane  and  I  un- 
derstand how  very  absent  papa  can  be.  I'm 
sure  he  doesn't  know  the  least  in  the  world  how 
he  came  by  it  himself,  or  he  would  tell  mamma. 
Do  you  know,  Lily,  I  think  I  have  been  wrong 
to  come  away?" 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear.  Remember  how  anx- 
ious Mrs.  Crawley  was  that  you  should  come." 

"But  I  can  not  bear  to  be  comfortable  here 
while  they  are  so  wretched  at  home.  It  seems 
such  a  mockery.  Every  time  I  find  myself 
smiling  at  Avhat  j'ou  say  to  me  I  think  I  must 
be  the  most  heartless  creature  in  the  world." 

"Is  it  so  very  bad  with  them,  Grace?" 

"Indeed  it  is  bad.  I  don't  think  you  can 
imagine  what  mamma  has  to  go  through.  She 
has  to  cook  all  that  is  eaten  in  the  house,  and 
then,  very  often,  there  is  no  money  in  the  house 
to  buy  any  thing.  If  you  were  to  see  the  clothes 
she  wears,  even  that  would  make  your  heart 
bleed.  I,  who  ha\e  been  used  to  being  poor 
all  my  life — even  I'  when  I  am  at  home,  am 
dismayed  by  what  she  has  to  endure." 

"  What  can  we  do  for  her,  Grace  ?" 

"Y'ou  can  do  nothing,  Lily.  But  when 
things  are  like  that  at  home  you  can  understand 
what  I  feel  in  being  here." 

Sirs.  Giles  and  Gregory  had  now  completed 
their  task,  or  had  so  nearly  done  so  as  to  make 
ISIiss  Dale  think  that  she  might  safely  leave  the 
church.  "  We  will  go  in  now,"  she  said ;  "  for 
it  is  dark  and  cold,  and  what  I  call  creepy.  Do 
you  ever  fancy  that  perhaps  you  will  see  a  ghost 
some  day  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  see  a  ghost ;  but 
all  the  same  I  should  be  half  afraid  to  be  licre 
alone  in  the  dark." 

"  I  am  often»here  alone  in  the  dark,  but  I  am 
beginning  to  think  I  shall  never  see  a  gliost 
now.  I  am  losing  all  my  romance,  and  getting 
to   be  an  old  woman.     Do  you  know,  Grace, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


I  do  so  liato  myself  for  being  such  an  old 
maid?" 

"Butwlio  says  you're  nn  old  maid,  Lily?" 

"  I  see  it  ill  ])cople's  eyes,  and  hear  it  in  tlicir 
voices.  And  they  all  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were 
very  steady,  and  altogether  removed  from  any 
tiling  like  fun  and  frolic.  It  seems  to  be  ad- 
mitted that  if  a  girl  does  not  want  to  fall  in  love, 
she  ought  not  to  care  for  any  other  fun  in  the 
world.  If  any  body  made  out  a  list  of  the  old 
ladies  in  these  parts  they'd  ]iut  down  Lady  Ju- 
lia, and  mamma,  and  Mrs.  Boyce,  and  mo,  and 
old  Mrs.  Ilearne.  The  very  children  have  an 
awful  respect  for  me,  and  give  over  playing  di- 
rectly they  see  me.  Well,  mamma,  we've  done 
at  last,  and  I  have  had  such  a  scolding  from 
Mrs.  Boycc." 

"  I  dare  say  you  deserved  it,  my  dear." 

'•  No,  I  did  not,  mamma.  Ask  Grace  if  I 
did." 

"Was  she  not  saucy  to  Mrs.  Boyee,  Miss 
Crawley?" 

"  She  said  that  I\Ir.  Boycc  scratches  his  nose 
in  church,"  said  Grace. 

"  So  he  docs;  and  goes  to  slcc]),  too." 

"If  you  told  Mrs.  Boycc  that,  Lily,  I  think 
she  was  quite  right  to  scold  you." 

Such  was  I\Iiss  Lily  Dale,  with  whom  Grace 
Crawley  was  st.aying — Lily  Dale,  with  whom 
Jlr.  John  Eamcs,  of  tlie  Income-tax  Office,  had 
been  so  long  and  so  steadily  in  love  that  he  was 
regai-ded  among  his  fellow-clerks  as  a  miracle 
of  constancy — who  had,  herself,  in  former  days 
been  so  unfortunate  in  love  as  to  have  been  re- 
garded among  her  friends  in  the  country  as  the 
most  ill-used  of  women.  As  John  Eames  had 
been  able  to  be  comfortable  in  life — that  is  to 
say,  not  utterly  a  wretch — in  spite  of  his  love, 
so  had  she  managed  to  hold  np  her  head,  and 
live  as  other  young  women  live,  in  spite  of  her 
misfortune.  But  as  it  may  be  said  also  that  his 
constancy  was  true  constancy,  although  he  knew 
how  to  enjoy  the  good  things  of  the  world,  so 
also  had  her  misfortune  been  a  true  misfortune, 
although  she  had  been  able  to  bear  it  nithout 
much  outer  show  of  shipwreck.  For  a  few  days 
— for  a  week  or  two,  when  the  blow  first  struck 
her — she  had  been  knocked  down,  and  the  friends 
who  were  nearest  to  her  had  thought  that  she 
would  never  again  stand  erect  upon  her  feet. 
But  she  had  been  very  strong,  stout  at  heart,  of 
a  fixed  purpose,  and  capable  of  resistance  against 
oppression.  Even  her  own  mother  had  been 
astonished,  and  sometimes  almost  dismayed,  by 
the  strength  of  her  will.  Her  motiier  knew  well 
how  it  was  with  her  now ;  but  they  who  saw  her 
frequently,  and  who  did  not  know  her  as  her 
mother  knew  her — the  Mrs.  Boyces  of  her  ac- 
quaintance— whispered  among  themselves  that 
Lily  Dale  was  not  so  soft  of  heart  as  pcojjle  used 
to  think. 

On  the  next  day,  Christmas-day,  as  the  read- 
er will  remember,  Grace  Crawley  was  taken  up 
to  dine  at  the  big  house  with  the  old  squire. 
IVIrs.  Dale's  eldest  daughter,  with  her  husband, 
Dr.  Crofts,  was  to  be  there ;  and  also  Lily's  old 


friend,  who  was  also  especially  the  old  friend  of 
Johnny  Eames,  Lady  Julia  l)e  Guest.  Grace 
had  endeavored  to  be  excused  from  the  ]iarty, 
])leading  many  pleas.  But  the  upshot  of  all 
her  ]ileas  was  this — that  while  her  father's  j^o- 
sition  was  so  painful  she  ought  not  to  go  out 
any  where.  In  answer  to  this,  Lily  Dale,  cor- 
roborated by  lier  mother,  assured  her  that  for 
her  father's  sake  she  ought  not  to  exhibit  any 
such  feeling;  that  in  doing  so  she  would  seem 
to  express  a  doubt  as  to  her  father's  innocence. 
Then  she  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  telling 
her  friend,  however,  that  she  knew  the  day 
would  be  very  miserable  to  her.  "It  will  be 
very  humdrum,  if  you  jileasc,"  said  Lily.  "No- 
thing can  be  more  humdrtnu  than  Christmas  at 
the  Great  House.     Nevertheless  you  must  go." 

Coming  out  of  church  Grace  was  introduced 
to  the  old  squire.  He  was  a  thin  old  man, 
/with  gray  hair,  and  the  smallest  jiossible  gray 
whiskers,  with  a  dry,  solemn  face  ;  not  carrying 
in  his  outward  gait  much  of  the  customary  jol- 
lity of  Christmas.  He  took  his  hat  off  to  Grace, 
and  said  some  word  to  her  as  to  hojiing  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  at  dinner.  It  sound- 
ed very  cold  to  her,  and  she  becatne  at  once 
afraid  of  him.  "I  wish  I  was  not  going,"  she 
said  to  Lily,  again.  "I  know  he  thinks  I 
ought  not  to  go.  I  shall  be  so  thaiikful  if  you 
will  but  let  mc  stay." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Grace.  It  all  comes  from 
your  not  knowing  him,  or  understanding  him. 
And  how  should  you  understand  iiiui  ?  I  give 
you  my  word  that  I  would  tell  you  if  I  did  not 
know  tliat  he  wishes  you  to  go." 

She  had  to  go.  "  Of  course  I  haven't  a  dress 
fit.  How  should  I?"  she  said  to  Lily.  "How 
wrong  it  is  of  me  to  put  myself  up  to  such  a 
thing  as  this!" 

"Your  dress  is  beautifid,  child.  Wc  are 
none  of  us  going  in  evening  dresses.  Pray  be- 
lieve that  I  will  not  make  you  do  wrong.  If 
you  won't  trust  me,  can't  you  trust  mamma?" 

Of  course  she  went.  When  the  three  ladies 
entered  the  drawing-room  of  the  Great  House 
they  found  that  Lady  Julia  had  arrived  just  be- 
fore them.  Lady  Julia  immediately  took  hold 
of  Lily,  and  led  her  apart,  having  a  word  or  two 
to  say  about  the  clerk  in  the  Income-tax  Office. 
I  am  not  sure  but  what  the  dear  old  woman 
sometimes  said  a  few  more  words  than  were  ex- 
pedient, with  a  view  to  the  object  which  she  had 
so  closely  at  heart.  "John  is  to  be  with  us  the 
first  week  in  February,"  she  said.  "I  suppose 
you'll  sec  him  before  that,  as  he'll  probably  be 
with  his  mother  a  few  days  before  he  comes  to 
me." 

"I  dare  say  we  shall  see  him  quite  in  time, 
Lady  Julia,"  said  Lily. 

"Now,  Lily,  don't  be  ill-natured." 

"I'm  the  most  good-natured  yomig  woman 
alive.  Lady  Julia;  and  as  for  Johni  y,  he  is  al- 
ways made  as  welcome  at  the  Sm;  11  House  as 
violets  in  March.  Mamma  puri  about  him 
when  he  comes,  asking  all  mann-jr  of  flattering 
questions,  as  though  he  were  a  c.ibinet  minister 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


75 


GEACE   CEAWLEV    18    INTRODUCED  TO  SQUIKE   DALE. 


at  least,  and  I  always  admire  some  little  nick- 
nack  that  he  has  got,  a  new  ring,  or  a  stud,  or 
a  button.  There  isn't  another  man  in  all  the 
world  whose  buttons  I'd  look  at." 

"  It  isn't  his  buttons,  Lily." 

"Ah,  that's  just  it.  I  can  go  as  far  as  his 
buttons.  But  come,  Lady  Julia,  this  is  Christ- 
mas time,  and  Christmas  should  be  a  holiday." 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Dale  was  occupied 
with  her  married  daughter  and  her  son-in-law, 
and  the  squire  had  attached  himself  to  poor 
Grace.  "  You  have  never  been  in  this  part  of 
the  country  before,  Miss  Crawley?"  he  said. 

"No,  Sir." 


"  It  is  rather  pretty  just  about  here,  and 
Guestwick  Manor  is  a  fine  place  in  its  way ;  but 
we  have  not  so  much  natural  beauty  as  you  have 
in  Barsetsliire.  Chaldicote  Chase  is,  I  think, 
as  pretty  as  any  thing  in  England." 

"  I  never  saw  Chaldicote  Chase,  Sir.  It  isn't 
pretty  at  all  at  Ilogglestock,  where  we  live." 

"  Ah,  I  forgot.  No ;  it  is  not  very  pretty  at 
Hogglestock.  That's  where  the  bricks  come 
from." 

"Papa  is  clergyman  at  Hogglestock." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  remember.  Your  fatlier  is  a 
great  scholar.  I  have  often  heard  of  him.  I 
am  so  sorry  he  should  be    distressed  by  this 


76 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


charge  tlicy  have  made.  But  it  will  all  come 
riglit  at  the  assizes.  They  always  get  at  the 
truth  there.  I  used  to  he  intimate  witii  a  cler- 
gyman in  Barsctshirc  of  the  name  of  Grantly" 
— Grace  felt  tliat  her  cars  were  tingling,  and 
that  her  face  was  red — "Archdeacon  Grantly, 
His  fatiicr  was  bisiiop  of  the  diocese." 

"Yes,  Sir.  Archdeacon  Grantly  lives  at 
Plumstead." 

"I  was  staying  once  with  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  Mr.  Thorne  of  Ullathorne,  who  lives  close 
to  Phmistcad,  and  saw  a  good  deal  of  them.  I 
remember  thinking  Henry  Grantly  was  a  very 
nice  lad.     He  married  afterward." 

"Yes,  Sir;  but  Iiis  wife  is  dead  now,  and  he 
has  got  a  little  girl — Editli  Grantly." 

"  Is  there  no  other  child  ?" 

"No,  Sir;  only  Edith." 

"You  know  him,  then?" 

"  Yes,  Sir ;  I  know  Major  Grantly — and  Edith. 
I  never  saw  Archdeacon  Grantly." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  you  never  saw  a  very  fa- 
mous pillar  of  the  cluirch.  I  remember  when 
people  used  to  talk  a  great  deal  about  Arch- 
deacon Grantly ;  but  when  his  time  came  to  be 
made  a  bishop  he  was  not  sufficiently  new-fan- 
gled, and  so  he  got  passed  by.  He  is  much 
better  off  as  he  is,  I  should  say.  Bishops  have 
to  work  very  hard,  my  dear." 

"Do  they,  Sir?" 

"  So  they  tell  me.  And  the  archdeacon  is  a 
wealthy  man.  So  Henry  Grantly  has  got  an 
only  daughter  ?  I  hope  she  is  a  nice  child,  for 
I  remember  liking  him  well." 

"  She  is  a  very  nice  child  indeed,  Mr.  Dale. 
She  could  not  be  nicer.  And  she  is  so  lovely  !" 
Then  Mr.  Dale  looked  into  his  young  compan- 
ion's face,  struck  by  the  sudden  animation  of 
her  words,  and  perceived  for  the  first  time  that 
she  was  very  jjretty. 

After  this  Grace  became  accustomed  to  the 
strangeness  .of  the  faces  round  her,  and  man- 
aged to  eat  her  dinner  without  much  perturba- 
tion of  spirit.  When  after  dinner  the  squire 
proposed  to  her  that  they  should  drink  the  health 
of  her  papa  and  mamma,  slie  was  almost  re- 
duced to  tears,  and  yet  she  liked  him  for  doing 
it.  It  was  teiTible  to  her  to  have  them  men- 
tioned, knowing  as  she  did  tliat  every  one  who 
mentioned  them  must  be  aware  of  their  misery 
— for  the  misfortune  of  her  father  had  become 
notorious  in  the  country ;  but  it  was  almost 
more  terrible  to  her  that  no  allusion  should  be 
made  to  thenj ;  for  then  slie  would  be  driven  to 
think  that  her  father  was  regarded  as  a  man 
whom  the  world  could  not  afford  to  mention. 
"  Papa  and  mamma,"  she  just  murmured,  rais- 
ing her  glass  to  her  lips.  "Grace,  dear,"  said 
Lily  from  across  the  table,  "  here's  papa  and 
mamma,  and  the  young  man  at  Marlborough 
who  is  carrying  every  thing  before  him."  "Yes  ; 
we  won't  forget  the  young  man  at  Marlborough," 
said  the  squire.  Grace  felt  this  to  be  good-na- 
tured, because  her  brother  at  Marlborough  was 
the  one  bright  spot  in  her  family — and  she  was 
comforted. 


"  And  we  will  drink  the  health  of  my  friend, 
John  Eames,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"John  Eames's  health,"  said  the  squire,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Johnny's  health,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  ;  but  Mrs. 
Dale's  voice  was  not  very  brisk. 

"John's  health,"  said  Dr.  Crofts  and  Mrs. 
Crofts  in  a  breath. 

"Here's  the  health  of  Johnny  Eames,"  said 
Lily ;  and  her  voice  was  the  clearest  and  the 
boldest  of  them  all.  But  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  if  Lady  Julia  could  not  be  induced 
to  spare  her  for  the  future  she  and  Lady  Julia 
must  quarrel.  "No  one  can  understand,"  she 
said  to  her  mother  that  evening,  "  how  dreadful 
it  is — this  being  constantly  told  before  one's 
family  and  friends  that  one  ought  to  marry  a 
certain  young  man." 

"  She  didn't  say  that,  my  dear." 

"  I  should  much  prefer  that  she  should,  for 
then  I  could  get  up  on  my  legs  and  answer  her 
off  the  reel."  Of  course  every  body  there  un- 
derstood what  she  meant — including  old  John 
Bates,  who  stood  at  the  side-board  and  coolly 
drank  the  toast  liimself. 

"  He  always  does  that  to  all  the  family  toasts 
on  Christmas-day.     Your  uncle  likes  it." 

"That  wasn't  a  family  toast,  and  John  Bates 
had  no  right  to  drink  it." 

After  dinner  they  all  played  cards — a  round 
game — and  the  squire  put  in  the  stakes.  "Now, 
Grace,"  said  Lily,  "you  are  the  visiter  and 
you  must  win,  or  else  uncle  Christopher  won't 
be  happy.  He  always  likes  a  young  lady  visit- 
or to  win." 

"But  I  never  plaved  a  game  of  cards  in  my 
life." 

"  Go  and  sit  next  to  him  and  he'll  teach  you. 
Uncle  Christopher,  won't  you  teach  Grace  Craw- 
ley ?  She  never  saw  a  Pope  Joan  board  in  her 
life  before." 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,  and  sit  next  to  me. 
Dear,  dear,  dear!  fancy  Henry  Grantly  having 
a  little  girl.  What  a  handsome  lad  he  was! 
And  it  seems  only  yesterday."  If  it  was  so  that 
Lily  had  said  a  word  to  her  uncle  about  Grace 
and  the  major,  the  old  squire  had  become  on  a 
sudden  very  sly.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Grace  Craw- 
ley thought  that  he  was  a  pleasant  old  man  ;  and 
though,  while  talking  to  him  about  Edith,  slie 
persisted  in  not  learning  to  play  Poj)e  Joan,  so 
that  he  could  not  contrive  that  she  should  win, 
nevertheless  the  squire  took  to  her  very  kindly, 
and  told  her  to  come  up  with  Lily  and  see  him 
sometimes  while  she  was  staying  at  the  Small 
House.  The  squire  in  speaking  of  his  sister- 
in-law's  cottage  always  called  it  the  Small 
House. 

"Only  think  of  my  winning!"  said  Lady 
Julia,  drawing  together  her  wealth.  "Well, 
I'm  sure  I  want  it  bad  enough,  for  I  don't  at  all  , 
know  whether  I've  got  any  income  of  my  own. 
It's  all  John  Eames's  fault,  my  dear,  for  he 
won't  go  and  make  those  people  settle  it  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields."  Poor  Lily,  who  was 
standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  touched  her  mo- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


77 


ther's  arm.  She  knew  that  Johnny's  name  was 
lugged  in  with  refereme  to  Lady  Julia's  money 
alto"ethcr  for  her  benefit.  "  I  wonder  whether 
she  ever  had  a  Johnny  of  her  own, "  she  said  to 
her  mother;  "and  if  so,  whether  she  liked  it 
when  her  friends  sent  the  town-crier  round  to 
talk  about  him." 

"She  means  to  be  good-natured,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale. 

'  "Of  course  she  does.  But  it  is  such  a  pity 
when  people  won't  understand." 

"  My  uncle  didn't  bite  you  after  all,  Grace," 
said  Lily  to  her  friend  as  they  were  going  home 
at  night  by  the  pathway  which  led  from  the 
garden  of  one  house  to  the  garden  of  the  other. 

"I  like  Mr.  Dale  very  much,"  said  Grace. 
"He  Mas  very  kind  to  me." 

"There  is  some  queer-looking  animal  of 
whom  they  say  that  he  is  better  than  he  looks, 
and  I  always  think  of  that  saying  when  I  think 
of  my  uncle." 

"For  shame,  Lily!"  said  her  mother.  "Your 
nncle,  for  his  age,  is  as  good  a  looking  man  as 
I  know.  And  he  always  looks  like  just  what  he 
is — an  English  gentleman." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  a  word  against  his 
dear  old  face  and  figure,  mamma ;  but  his 
heart,  and  mind,  and  general  disposition,  as 
they  come  out  in  experience  and  days  of 
trial,  are  so  much  better  than  the  samples  of 
them  which  he  puts  out  on  the  counter  for  men 
and  women  to  judge  by.  He  wears  well,  and 
he  washes  well — if  you  know  what  I  mean, 
Grace." 

"  Yes ;  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  The  Apollos  of  the  world — I  don't  mean 

in  outward  looks,  mamma — but  the  Apollos  in 

heart,  the  men,  and  the  women  too — who  are  so 

I  full  of  feeling,  so  soft-natured,  so  kind,  who  nev- 

!  er  say  a  cross  word,  who  never  get  out  of  bed 

j  on  the  wrong  side  in  the  morning — it  so  often 

turns  out  tliat  they  won't  wash." 

Such  was  the  expression  of  Miss  Lily  Dale's 
experience. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

MR.    CKAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCIIESTEK. 

The  scene  which  occurred  m  Hogglestock 

church  on  the  Sunday  after  Mr.  Thumble's  first 

visit  to  that  parish  had  not  been  described  with 

absolute  accuracy  either  by  the  archdeacon  in 

J  his  letter  to  his  son,  or  by  Mrs.  Thorne.    There 

I  had  been  no  footman  from  the  palace  in  attend- 

I  ance  on  Mr.  Thumble,  nor  had  there  been  a 

I  battle  with  the  brickmakers ;  neither  had  Mr. 

j  Thumble  been  put  imder  the  pump.     But  Mr. 

i  Thumble  had  gone  over,  taking  his  gown  and 

1  surplice  with  liim,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and 

I  had  intimated  to  Mr.  Crawley  his  intention  o^ 

I  performing  the  service.     Mr.  Crawley,  in  an- 

i  swer  to  this,  had  assured  Mr.  Thumble  that  he 

I  would  not  be  allowed  to  open  his  mouth  in  the 

I  church ;  and  Mr.  Tliumble,  not  seeing  his  way 

to  any  furtlicr  successful  action,  had  contented 


himself  with  attending  the  services  in  his  sur- 
plice, making  tliereby  a  silent  protest  that  he, 
and  not  Mr.  Crawley,  ought  to  have  been  in  the 
reading-desk  and  the  pulpit. 

When  Mr.  Thumble  reported  himself  and  his 
failure  at  the  palace,  he  strove  hard  to  avoid 
seeing  Mrs.  Proudie,  but  not  successfully-.  He 
Jvuew  something  of  the  palace  habits,  and  did 
manage  to  reach  the  bishop  alone  on  the  Sun- 
day evening,  justifying  himself  to  his  lordshii) 
for  svtch  an  interview  by  the  remarkable  circum- 
stances of  the  case  and  the  importance  of  his 
late  mission.  Mrs.  Proudie  always  went  to 
church  on  Sunday  evenings,  making  a  point  of 
hearing  three  services  and  three  sermons  every 
Sunday  of  her  life.  On  week-days  she  seldom 
heard  any,  having  an  idea  that  week-day  serv- 
ices were  an  invention  of  the  High  Church  en- 
emy, and  that  they  should  therefore  be  vehe- 
mently discouraged.  Serv'ices  on  saints'  days  she 
regarded  as  rank  papacy,  and  had  been  known 
to  accuse  a  clergyman's  wife,  to  her  face,  of 
idolatry,  because  the  poor  lady  had  dated  a  let- 
ter St.  John's  Eve.  Mr.  Thumble,  on  this  Sun- 
day evening,  was  successful  in  finding  the  bish- 
op at  home  and  alone,  but  he  was  not  lucky 
enough  to  get  away  before  Mrs.  Proudie  re- 
turned. The  bishop,  perhaps,  thought  that  the 
story  of  the  failure  had  better  reach  his  wife's 
ears  from  Mr.  Thumble's  lips  than  from  his 
own. 

"Well,  Mr.  Thumble?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie, 
walking  into  the  study,  armed  in  her  full  Sun- 
day-evening winter  panoply,  in  which  she  had 
just  descended  from  her  carriage.  The  church 
which  Mrs.  Proudie  attended  in  the  evening 
was  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  palace,  and  the 
coachman  and  groom  never  got  a  holiday  on 
Sunday  night.  She  was  gorgeous  in  a  dark 
brown  silk  dress  of  awful  stiffness  and  terrible 
dimensions ;  and  on  her  shoulders  she  wore  a 


78 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


short  cloak  of  velvet  and  fur,  very  handsome 
withal,  but  so  swcllinj;  in  its  jiroportions  on  all 
sides  as  necessarily  to  create  more  of  dismay 
than  of  admiration  in  tiic  mind  of  any  ordinary 
man.  And  her  bonnet  >vas  a  monstrous  helmet 
with  the  beaver  uj),  disidaying  the  awful  face  of 
the  warrior,  always  ready  for  combat,  and  care- 
less to  j^'uard  itself  from  attack.  The  lar{:;c  con- 
torted bows  which  she  bore  were  as  a  grizzly  crest 
upon  her  casque,  beautiful,  doubtless,  but  ma- 
jestic and  fear-compelling.  In  her  hand  she 
carried  her  armor  all  comi)lete,  a  prayer-book, 
ft  Bible,  and  a  book  of  hymns.  These  the  foot- 
man had  brought  for  her  to  the  study  door,  but 
she  had  thought  fit  to  enter  her  husband's  room 
with  them  in  her  own  custody. 

"Well,  Mr.  Thumble!"  she  said. 

]Mr.  Thumhle  did  not  answer  at  once,  tiiink- 
ing,  probably,  that  the  bishop  might  choose  to 
explain  the  circumstances.  But  neither  did  the 
bishop  say  any  thing. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Thumble  ?"  she  said  again  ;  and 
then  she  stood  looking  at  the  man  who  had 
failed  so  disastrously. 

"I  have  explained  to  the  bislioj),"  said  he. 
"Mr.  Crawley  has  been  contumacious  —  very 
contumacious  indeed." 

"  But  you  preached  at  Ilogglestock  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  ]\Irs.  I'roudie.  Nor  would  it 
have  been  possible  unless  I  had  had  the  police 
to  assist  mc." 

"Then  you  should  have  had  the  police.  I 
never  heard  of  any  thing  so  mismanaged  in  all 
my  life — never  in  all  my  life."  And  she  put  her 
books  down  on  the  study  table,  and  turned  her- 
self round  from  Mr.  Thumble  toward  the  bishop. 
"If  things  go  on  like  this,  my  lord,"  she  said, 
"your  authority  in  the  diocese  will  very  soon 
be  worth  nothing  at  all."  It  was  not  often  that 
Mrs.  Troudic  called  her  husband  my  lord,  but 
when  slie  did  do  so  it  was  a  sign  that  terrible 
times  had  come — times  so  terrible  that  the  bish- 
op would  know  that  he  must  either  fight  or  fly. 
He  would  almost  endure  any  thing  rather  than 
descend  into  the  arena  for  the  purpose  of  doing 
battle  with  his  wife,  but  occasions  would  come 
now  and  again  when  even  the  alternative  of  flight 
was  hardly  left  to  him. 

"  But,  m_v  dear — "  began  the  bishop. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  this  man  has  pro- 
fessed himself  to  be  altogether  indifferent  to  the 
bishop's  ])rohibition  ?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  inter- 
rupting her  husband  and  addressing  Mr.  Thum- 
ble. 

"  Quite  so.  He  seemed  to  think  that  the 
bishop  had  no  lawful  power  in  the  matter  at 
all,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  my  lord?'' said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"Nor  have  I  any,"  said  the  bishop,  almost 
weeping  as  he  spoke. 

"  No  authority  in  your  own  diocese?" 

"None  to  silence  a  man  merely  by  my  own 
judgment.  I  thought,  and  still  think,  that  it 
was  for  this  gentleman's  own  interest,  as  well  as 
for  the  credit  of  the  Church,  that  some  provi- 


sion should  be  made  for  hi.s  duties  during  his 
])resent — present — difficulties." 

"  Dilliculties  indeed!  Every  body  knows 
that  the  man  has  been  a  thief." 

"  No,  my  dear;  I  do  not  know  it." 

"  You  never  know  any  thing,  bishop." 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  do  not  know  it  offi- 
cially. Of  course  I  have  heard  the  sad  story ; 
and,  though  I  hojic  it  may  not  be  the — " 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  its  truth.  All  the 
world  knows  it.  lie  has  stolen  twenty  pounds, 
and  yet  he  is  to  be  allowed  to  desecrate  tho 
Church,  and  imperil  the  souls  of  the  people  1" 
The  bishop  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  began  to 
walk  backward  and  forward  through  the  room 
with  short,  quick  steps.  "It  only  wants  five 
days  to  Christmas-day,"  continued  Mrs.  Proudie, 
"  and  something  must  be  done  at  once.  I  say 
nothing  as  to  the  jiropriety  or  imjiropricty  of 
his  being  out  on  bail,  as  it  is  no  aftair  of  ours. 
When  I  heard  tliat  he  had  been  bailed  by  a 
beneficed  clergyman  of  this  diocese,  of  course  I 
knew  where  to  look  for  the  man  who  would  act 
with  so  much  impropriety.  Of  course  I  was 
not  surprised  when  I  found  that  that  person  be- 
longed to  Framlcy.  But,  as  I  have  said  before, 
that  is  no  business  of  ours.  I  hojjc,  Jlr.  Thum- 
ble, that  the  bishop  will  never  be  found  interfer- 
ing with  the  ordinary'  laws  of  the  land.  I  am 
very  sure  that  he  will  never  do  so  by  my  advice. 
But  when  there  comes  a  question  of  inliibiting 
a  clergyman  who  has  committed  himself  as  this 
clergyman  unfortunately  has  done,  then  I  say 
that  that  clergyman  ought  to  be  inhibited." 
The  bishop  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
throughout  the  whole  of  this  speech,  but  grad- 
ually his  steps  became  quicker,  and  his  turns 
became  shorter.  "  And  now  here  is  Christmas- 
day  upon  us,  and  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  With 
these  words  Mrs.  Proudie  finished  her  speech. 

"  jNIr.  Thumble,"  said  the  bishop,  "perhaps 
you  had  better  now  retire.  I  am  very  sorry 
that  you  should  have  had  so  thankless  and  so 
disagreeable  a  task." 

"Why  should  Mr.  Thumble  retire?"  asked 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

"I  think  it  better,"  said  the  bishop.  "Mr. 
Thumble,  good-night."  Then  Mr.  Thumble  did 
retire,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  stood  forth  in  her  full 
Ijanoply  of  armor,  silent  and  awful,  with  her  hel- 
met erect,  and  vouchsafed  no  recognition  what- 
ever of  the  parting  salutation  with  which  Mr. 
Thumble  greeted  her.  "  My  dear,  the  truth  is 
you  do  not  undei'stand  the  matter,"  said  the 
bishop  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed.  "You 
do  not  know  how  limited  is  my  power." 

"Bishop,  I  understand  it  a  great  deal  better 
than  some  peojde ;  and  I  understand  also  what 
is  due  to  myself  and  the  manner  in  which  I 
ought  to  be  treated  by  you  in  the  presence  of 
the  subordinate  clergy  of  the  diocese.  I  shall 
not,  howevei-,  remain  here  to  be  insulted  cither 
in  the  presence  or  in  the  absence  of  any  one." 
Then  the  conquered  Amazon  collected  together 
the  weajjons  which  she  had  laid  ujjon  the  table, 
and  took  her  departure  with  majestic  step,  and 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


79 


!i<it  without  the  dang  of  arms.  The  bisliop, 
Alien  he  was  left  alone,  enjoyed  for  a  few  mo- 
ments the  triumph  of  his  victory. 

But  then  he  was  left  so  very  much  alone! 
When  he  looked  round  about  him  upon  his  soli- 
tude after  the  departure  of  his  wife,  and  remem- 
bered that  he  should  not  see  her  again  till  lie 
should  encounter  her  on  ground  that  was  all  her 
own,  he  regretted  his  own  success,  and  was  tempt- 
ed to  follow  her  and  to  ajjologize.  He  was  unable 
to  do  any  thing  alone.  He  would  not  even 
know  how  to  get  his  tea,  as  the  very  servants 
would  ask  questions  if  he  were  to  do  so  unac- 
customed a  thing  as  to  order  it  to  be  brought  up 
to  him  in  his  solitude.  They  would  tell  him 
that  jMrs.  Proudie  was  having  tea  in  her  little 
sitting-room  up  stairs,  or  else  that  the  things 
were  laid  in  the  drawing-room.  He  did  wan- 
der forth  to  the  latter  apartment,  lioi)ing  that 
he  might  find  his  wife  there  ;  but  the  drawing- 
room  was  dark  and  deserted,  and  so  he  wander- 
ed back  again.  It  was  a  grand  thing  certainly 
to  have  triumphed  over  his  wife,  and  there  was 
a  crumb  of  comfort  in  the  thought  that  he  had 
vindicated  himself  before  Mr.  Thumble ;  but  the 
general  result  was  not  comforting,  and  he  knew 
from  of  old  how  short-lived  his  triumph  would  be. 

But  wretched  as  he  was  during  that  evening 
he  did  employ  himself  with  some  energ3^  After 
much  thought  he  resolved  that  he  would  again 
write  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  summon  him  to  ap- 
pear at  the  palace.  In  doing  this  he  would  at 
any  rate  be  doing  something.  There  would  be 
action.  And  though  Mr.  Crawley  would,  as 
he  thought,  decline  to  obey  the  order,  some- 
thing would  be  gained  even  by  that  disobedi- 
ence. So  he  wrote  his  summons — sitting  very 
comfortless  and  all  alone  on  that  Sunday  even- 
ing— dating  his  letter,  however,  for  the  follow- 
ing day : 

"  Palace,  Bccemher  20,  ISO-. 

"  Reverend  Sir, — I  have  just  heard  from 
Mr.  Thumble  that  you  have  declined  to  accede 
to  the  advice  which  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  ten- 
der to  you  as  the  bishop  who  has  been  set  over 
you  by  the  Church,  and  that  you  yesterday  in- 
sisted on  what  3-ou  believed  to  be  your  riglit,  to 
administer  the  services  in  the  parish  church  of 
Hogglestock.  This  has  occasioned  me  the 
deepest  regret.  It  is,  I  think,  unavailing  that 
I  should  further  write  to  you  my  mind  upon  the 
subject,  as  I  possess  such  strong  evidence  that 
ray  written  word  will  not  be  respected  by  you. 
I  have,  tlierefore,  no  alternative  now  but  to  in- 
vite yoM  to  come  to  me  here ;  and  this  I  do, 
hoping  that  I  may  induce  you  to  listen  to  that; 
authority  which  I  can  not  but  suppose  you  ac- 
knowledge to  be  vested  in  the  office  which  I  hold. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  on  to-morrow, 
Tuesda}',  as  near  the  hour  of  two  as  you  can 
make  it  convenient  to  yourself  to  be  here,  and 
I  will  take  care  to  order  that  refreshment  shall 
be  provided  for  yourself  and  your  horse. 
"I  am.  Reverend  Sir, 

"  Etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
"Thos.  B.\kxum." 


"My  dear,"  he  said,  when  he  did  again  en- 
counter his  wife  that  night,  "I  have  written  to 
Mr.  Crawley,  and  I  tliought  I  might  as  well 
bring  up  the  cojjy  of  my  letter." 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  tlie  whole  affair,"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie — "of  the  whole  affair  !" 

"But  you  will  look  at  the  letter?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Why  should  I  look  at  the 
letter?  My  word  goes  for  nothing.  I  have 
done  wliat  I  could,  but  in  vain.  Now  let  us  see 
how  you  will  manage  it  yourself." 

The  bishop  did  not  pass  a  comfortable  night ; 
but  in  the  morning  his  wife  did  read  his  letter, 
and  after  that  things  went  a  little  smoother  with 
him.  She  was  pleased  to  say  that,  considering 
all  things — seeing,  as  she  could  not  help  seeing, 
that  the  matter  had  been  dreadfully  misman- 
aged, and  that  great  weakness  had  been  dis- 
played— seeing  that  these  faults  had  jilready 
been  committed,  perhaps  no  better  step  could 
now  be  taken  than  that  proposed  in  the  letter. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  not  come,"  said  the  bishoji. 

"  I  think  he  will,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "and 
I  trust  that  we  may  be  able  to  convince  him 
that  obedience  will  be  his  best  course.  He  will 
be  more  humble-minded  here  than  at  Hoggle- 
stock." In  saying  this  the  lady  showed  some 
knowledge  of  the  general  nature  of  clei'gymen 
and  of  the  world  at  large.  She  understood  how 
much  louder  a  cock  can  crow  in  its  own  farm- 
yard than  elsewhere,  and  knew  that  episcopal 
authority,  backed  by  all  the  solemn  awe  of  pa- 
latial grandeur,  goes  much  further  than  it  will 
do  when  sent  under  the  folds  of  an  ordinary  en- 
velope. But  though  she  understood  ordinary 
human  nature,  it  may  be  that  she  did  not  un- 
derstand Mr.  Crawley's  nature. 

But  she  was  at  any  rate  right  in  her  idea  as 
to  INIr.  Crawley's  immediate  reply.  The  palace 
groom  who  rode  over  to  Hogglestock  returned 
with  an  immediate  answer. 

"My  Lord" — said  Mr.  Crawley — "I  will 
obey  your  lordship's  summons,  and,  unless  im- 
pediments should  arise,  I  will  wait  upon  your 
lordship  at  the  hour  you  name  to-morrow.  I 
will  not  trespass  on  your  hospitalit}^  For  my- 
self, I  rarely  break  bread  in  any  house  but  my 
own  ;  and  as  to  the  horse,  I  have  none. 
"I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"My  lord,  etc.,  etc., 
"Joshua  Craavley." 

"Of  course  I  shall  go,  "he  had  said  to  his 
wife  as  soon  as  he  had  had  time  to  read  the  let- 
ter, and  make  known  to  her  the  contents.  "I 
shall  go  if  it  be  possible  for  me  to  get  there.  I 
think  that  I  am  bound  to  comply  with  the  bish- 
op's wishes  in  so  much  as  that." 

"But  how  will  you  get  there,  Joshua?" 
"  I  will  walk — with  the  Lord's  aid." 
Now  Hogglestock  was  fifteen  miles  from  Bar- 
chester,  and  Air.  Crawley  was,  as  his  wife  well 
knew,  by  no  means  fitted  in  his  present  state  for 
great  physical  exertion.  But  from  the  tone  in 
which  he  had  replied  to  her  slie  well  knew  that 


80 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


it  would  not  avail  for  her  to  remonstrate  at  the 
niomont.  lie  had  walked  more  tlian  thirty 
miles  in  a  day  since  they  had  been  living  at 
IIogj,'lestock,  and  she  did  not  doubt  but  that  it 
miglit  be  jiossiblc  for  liim  to  do  it  again.  Any 
scheme  wliich  she  might  be  able  to  devise  for 
saving  him  from  so  terrible  a  journey  in  the 
middle  of  winter  must  be  pondered  over  silently, 
and  brouglit  to  bear,  if  not  slyly,  at  least  defily, 
and  without  diseussion.  She  made  no  reply, 
tlierefure,  when  he  declared  that  on  the  follow- 
ing day  he  would  walk  to  Barchcster  and  back 
— with  the  Lord's  aid;  nor  did  .';hc  see  or  ask 
to  see  the  note  which  ho  sent  to  the  bishop. 
When  the  messenger  was  gone  Mr.  Crawley 
•was  all  alert,  looking  forward  with  evident  glee 
to  his  encounter  with  the  bishop — snorting  like 
a  race-horse  at  the  expected  trium])h  of  the 
coming  struggle.  And  ho  read  much  Greek 
with  Jane  on  that  afternoon,  pouring  into  her 
young  ears,  almost  with  joyous  rajiture,  his  a])- 
preciation  of  the  glory  and  the  pathos  and  tlic 
liumanity,  as  also  of  the  awful  tragedy,  of  the 
story  of  CEdijius.  His  very  soul  was  on  fire  at 
the  idea  of  clutching  the  weak  bishop  in  his 
hand,  and  crusliing  liim  with  his  strong  grasp. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Crawley  sli]iped  out  to 
a  ncigliboring  farmer's  wife,  and  returned  in  an 
liour's  time  with  a  little  story  which  she  did 
not  tell  with  any  appearance  of  eager  satisfac- 
tion. She  had  learned  well  what  w^ere  the  lit- 
tle tricks  necessarv  to  the  carrying  of  such  n 
matter  as  that  whicli  she  had  now  in  hand. 
Z^Ir.  I\Iangle,  the  farmer,  as  it  hajijiencd,  was 
going  to-morrow  morning  in  his  tax-cart  as  far 
as  Framley  Jlill,  and  would  bo  dcliglited  if  Mr. 
Crawley  would  take  a  seat.  He  must  remain 
at  I'ramley  the  best  part  of  the  afternoon,  and 
hoped  that  Mr.  Crawley  would  take  a  seat  back 
again.  Now  Framley  Mill  was  only  half  a  mile 
off  the  direct  road  to  Barchester,  and  was  almost 
half-way  from  Ilogglestock  parsonage  to  the  city. 
This  would,  at  any  rate,  bring  the  walk  within  a 
practicable  distance.  Mr.  Crawley  was  instant- 
ly placed  upon  his  guard,  like  an  animal  tliat 
sees  the  bait  and  suspects  th.e  trap.  Had  he 
been  told  that  farmer  Mangle  was  going  all  the 
way  to  Barchester,  nothing  would  have  induced 
him  to  get  into  the  cart.  He  would  have  felt 
sure  that  farmer  Mangle  had  been  persuaded 
to  pity  him  in  his  poverty  and  his  strait,  and 
he  would  sooner  have  started  to  walk  to  Lon- 
don than  have  )Hit  a  foot  upon  the  step  of  the 
cart.  But  this  lift  half-way  did  look  to  him  as 
though  it  were  really  fortuitous.  His  wife  could 
hardly  have  been  cunning  enough  to  persuade 
the  farmer  to  go  to  Framley,  conscious  that  the 
trap  would  have  been  suspected  had  the  bait 
been  made  more  full.  But  I  fear — I  fear  the 
dear  good  woman  had  been  thus  cunning — had 
understood  how  far  the  trap  might  be  baited, 
and  had  thus  succeeded  in  catching  her  prey. 

On  the  following  morning  he  consented  to 
get  into  farmer  Mangle's  cart,  and  wasxiriven  as 
far  as  Framley  ]\IilI.  "I  wouldn't  think  nowt, 
your  reverence,  of  running  you  over  into  Bar- 


chester— that  I  wouldn't.  The  powny  is  so  mor- 
tial  good,"  said  farmer  Mangle,  in  his  foolish 
good-nature. 

"And  how  about  your  business  here?"  said 
Jlr.  Crawley.  The  farmer  scratched  his  head, 
remembering  all  IMrs.  Crawley's  injunctions, 
and  awkwardly  acknowledged  that  to  be  sure 
his  own  business  with  the  miller  was  very  jiress- 
ing.  Then  ]\Ir.  Crawley  descended,  terribly 
susjiicious,  and  went  on  his  journey. 

"  Any  ways,  your  reverence  will  call  for  mo 
coming  back  ?"'  said  farmer  Mangle.  But  Mr. 
Crawley  would  make  no  promise.  He  bade 
the  farmer  not  wait  for  him.  If  they  chanced 
to  meet  together  on  the  road  he  might  get  up 
again.  If  the  man  really  had  business  at  Fram- 
ley, how  could  he  h.avc  offered  to  go  on  to  Bar- 
chester ?  Were  they  deceiving  him  ?  The  wife 
of  his  bosom  had  deceived  him  in  such  matters 
before  now.  But  his  trouble  in  this  respect  was 
soon  dissipated  by  the  pride  of  his  anticijjated 
trium])h  over  the  bishop.  He  took  great  glory 
from  the  thought  that  he  would  go  before  the 
bishop  with  dirty  boots — with  boots  necessarily 
dirty — with  rusty  pantaloons ;  that  he  would  be 
hot  and  mud-stained  with  his  walk,  hungry, 
and  an  object  to  be  wondered  at  by  all  who 
should  see  him,  because  of  the  misfortunes  whicli 
had  been  unworthily  heaped  upon  his  head ; 
whereas  the  bishop  would  be  sleek  and  clean 
and  well-fed — pretty  with  alllhe  prcttinesses  that 
are  becoming  to  a  bishop's  outward  man.  And 
he,  ]\Ir.  Crawley,  would  be  humble,  whereas  the 
bishop  would  be  very  proud.  And  the  bishop 
Avould  be  in  his  own  arm-chair — the  cock  in  his 
own  farm-yard,  while  he,  Mr.  Crawley,  would 
be  seated  afar  off,  in  the  cold  extremity  of  the 
room,  with  nothing  of  outward  circumstances  to 
assist  him — a  man  called  thither  to  undergo 
censure.  And  yet  he  would  take  the  bishop  in 
his  grasp,  and  crush  him — crush  him — crush 
him !  As  he  thought  of  this  he  walked  cjuickly 
througli  the  mud,  and  put  out  his  long  arm  and 
his  great  hand,  for  before  him  out  into  the  air, 
and,  there  and  then,  lie  crushed  the  bishop  in 
liis  imagination.  Yes,  indeed!  He-thought  it 
very  doubtful  whether  the  bishop  would  ever 
send  for  him  a  second  time.  As  all  this  pass- 
ed through  his  mind,  he  forgot  his  wife's  cun- 
ning, and  farmer  Mangle's  sin,  and  for  t!;e  mo- 
ment he  was  happy. 

As  he  turned  a  corner  round  by  Lord  Lufton's 
park  ])aling  who  should  he  meet  but  his  old 
friend  Mr.  Robarts,  the  parson  of  Framle}  — 
the  parson  Mho  had  committed  the  sin  of  being 
bail  for  him — the  sin,  that  is,  according  to  Mrs. 
Proudie's  view  of  the  matter.  He  was  walking 
with  his  hand  still  sti'ctched  out — still  crushing 
the  bishop,  when  Mr.  Robarts  was  close  upon 
him. 

"What,  Crawley!  upon  my  word  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  ;  you  are  coming  up  to  me,  of 
course  ?" 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Robarts;  no,  not  to-day. 
The  bishop  has  summoned  me  to  his  presence, 
and  I  am  on  my  road  to  Barchester," 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


8t 


i.-it^    -     -iJ, 


"But  how  are  you  going?" 

"I  shall  walk." 

"  Walk  to  Barchester  ?     Impossible !" 

"I  hope  not  quite  impossible,  Mr.  Robarts. 
I  trust  I  shall  get  as  far  before  two  o'clock  ;  but 
to  do  so  I  must  be  on  my  road."  Then  he 
showed  signs  of  a  desire  to  go  on  upon  his  way 
without  farther  parley. 

"But  Crawley,  do  let  me  send  you  over. 
There  is  the  horse  and  gig  doing  nothing." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Robarts ;  no.  I  should 
prefer  the  walk  to-day!" 

"And  you  have  walked  from  Hogglestock?" 

"No — not  so.  A  neighbor  coming  hither, 
who  happened  to  have  business  at  your  mill — 
he  brought  me  so  far  in  his  cart.     The  walk 


home  will  be  nothing — nothing.     I  shall  enjoy 
it.     Good-morning,  Mr.  Robarts." 

But  IMr.  Robarts  thought  of  the  dirty  road, 
and  of  the  bishop's  presence,  and  of  his  own 
ideas  of  what  would  be  becoming  for  a  clergy-' 
man — and  persevered.  "  You  will  find  the  lanes 
so  very  muddy ;  and  our  bishop,  you  know,  is 
apt  to  notice  such  things.     Do  be  persuaded." 

"Notice what  things?"  demanded  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, in  an  indignant  tone. 

"He,  or  perhaps  she  rather,  will  say  how 
dirty  your  shoes  were  when  you  came  to  the 
palace." 

"  If  he,  or  she,  can  find  nothing  unclean 
about  me  but  my  shoes,  let  them  say  their 
worst.     I   shall   be  very  indifferent.     I   have 


82 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


long  ceased,  Mr.  Roberts,  to  cnre  much  what 
any  man  or  woman  may  say  about  my  shoes. 
Good-morning."  Then  he  stalked  on,  chuching 
and  crushing  in  liis  hand  the  bisliop,  and  the 
bisliop's  wife,  and  tlic  whole  diocese — and  all 
the  Church  of  England.  Dirty  shoes,  indeed  I 
Whose  was  the  fault  that  there  were  in  the 
church  so  many  feet  soiled  by  unmerited  jiov- 
crty,  and  so  many  hands  soiled  by  undeserved 
wealth  ?  If  the  bishoj)  did  not  like  his  shoes  let 
the  bishop  dare  to  tell  him  so!  So  he  walked 
on  through  the  thick  of  the  mud,  by  no  means 
picking  his  way. 

He  walked  fast,  and  he  fiiund  himself  in  the 
close  half  an  hour  before  the  time  named  by  the 
bishop.  But  on  no  account  would  he  have  rung 
the  palace  bell  one  minute  bcfurc  two  o'clock. 
So  he  walked  up  and  down  under  the  towers  of 
the  catlicdral,  and  cooled  himself,  and  looked  up 
at  the  i)lcasant  jjlate-glass  in  the  windows  of  the 
house  of  his  friend  the  dean,  and  told  himself 
how,  in  their  college  days,  he  and  the  dean  had 
been  quite  equal — quite  equal,  except  that  by 
the  voices  of  all  qualified  judges  in  the  uni- 
versity, he,  Mr.  Crawley,  had  been  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  riper  scholar.  And  now  the 
Jlr.  Arabiu  of  those  days  was  Dean  of  Barehcs- 
ter — traveling  abroad  luxuriously  at  this  moment 
for  his  delight,  while  he,  Crawley,  was  perpet- 
ual curate  at  Hogglestock,  and  had  now  walked 
into  Barchester  at  the  command  of  the  bishop 
because  he  was  suspected  of  having  stolen  twenty 
pounds!  When  he  had  fully  imbued  his  mind 
with  the  injustice  of  all  this  his  time  was  up, 
and  he  walked  boldly  to  the  bishop's  gate,  and 
boldly  rang  the  bishop's  bell. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

THE    BISHOP   OF   BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED. 

Who  inquires  why  it  is  that  a  little  greased 
flour  rubbed  in  among  the  hair  on  a  footman's 
head — ^just  one  dub  here  and  another  there — 
gives  such  a  tone  of  high  life  to  the  family? 
And  seeing  that  tiie  thing  is  so  easily  done,  why 
do  not  more  people  attempt  it?  The  tax  on 
hair-powder  is  but  thirteen  shillings  a  year.  It 
may,  indeed,  be  that  the  slightest  dab  in  the 
world  justifies  the  wearer  in  demanding  hot  meat 
three  times  a  day,  and  wine  at  any  rate  on  Sun- 
days. I  think,  however,  that  a  bishop's  wife 
may  enjoy  the  privilege  without  such  heavy  at- 
tendant expense ;  otherwise  the  man  who  open- 
ed the  bishop's  door  to  i\Ir.  Crawley  would  hard- 
ly have  been  so  ornamented. 

The  man  asked  for  a  card.  ' '  My  name  is  Mr. 
Crawley,"  said  our  friend.  "The  bishop  has 
desired  me  to  come  to  him  at  this  hour.  Will 
you  be  jilcascd  to  tell  him  that  I  am  here."  The 
man  again  asked  for  a  card.  "I  am  not  bound 
to  carry  with  me  my  name  printed  on  a  ticket," 
said  Mr.  Crawley.  "  If  you  can  not  remember 
it,  give  me  pen  and  i)aper  and  I  will  write  it." 
The  servant,  somewhat  awed  bv  the  stranger's 


manner,  brought  the  pen  and  paper,  and  Mr. 
Crawley  wrote  his  name  : 

"The  liEv.  JdSiu'A  Crawley,  M.  A., 

J'o-pctual  Curate  of  IIog(jlcstoclc." 

lie  was  then  ushered  into  a  waiting-room,  but, 
to  his  disa))])ointment,  was  not  kept  there  wait- 
ing long.  Within  three  minutes  he  was  usher- 
ed into  the  bishop's  study,  and  into  the  ])resenco 
of  the  two  great  luminaries  of  the  diocese.  He 
was  at  first  somewhat  disconcerted  by  finding 
Mrs.  Troudie  in  the  room.  In  the  imaginary 
conversation  with  the  bishop  which  he  had  been 
preparing  on  the  road  he  had  conceived  that 
the  bishop  would  be  attended  by  a  chaplain, 
and  he  had  suited  his  words  to  the  joint  discom- 
fiture of  the  bishop  and  of  tiie  lower  clergyman ; 
but  now  the  line  of  his  battle  must  be  altered. 
Tills  was  no  doubt  an  injury,  but  he  trusted  to  his 
courage  and  readiness  to  enable  him  to  sur- 
mount it.  He  had  left  his  hat  bcliind  him  in 
the  waiting-room,  but  he  kejit  his  old  short 
cloak  still  ui)on  iiis  shoulders ;  and  when  he 
entered  the  bishop's  room  his  hands  and  arms 
were  hid  beneath  it.  There  was  something 
lowly  in  this  constrained  gait.  It  showed  at 
least  that  he  had  no  idea  of  being  asked  to 
shake  hands  with  the  august  persons  he  might 
meet.  And  his  head  was  somewhat  bowed, 
though  his  great,  bald,  broad  forehead  showed 
itself  so  prominent  that  neither  the  bishop  nor 
Mrs.  Proudic  could  drop  it  from  their  sight 
during  the  whole  interview.  He  was  a  man 
who  when  seen  could  hardly  be  forgotten.  The 
deep,  angry,  remonstrant  eyes,  the  shaggy  eye- 
brows, telling  tales  of  frequent  anger — of  anger 
frequent  but  generally  silent — the  repressed  in- 
dignation of  the  habitual  frown,  the  long  nose 
and  large,  powerful  mouth,  the  deep  furrows  on 
the  check,  and  the  general  look  of  thought  and 
suffering,  all  combined  to  make  the  appearance 
of  the  man  remarkable,  and  to  describe  to  the 
beholders  at  once  his  true  character.  No  one 
ever  on  seeing  Mr.  Crawley  took  him  to  be  a  hap- 
py man,  or  a  weak  man,  or  an  ignorant  man, 
or  a  wise  man. 

"You  are  very  punctual,  Mr.  Crawley,'"  said 
the  bishop.  Mr.  Crawley  simply  bowed  his 
head,  still  keeping  his  hands  beneath  his  cloak. 
"  Will  you  not  take  a  chair  nearer  to  the  fire  ?" 
Jlr.  Crawley  had  not  seated  himself,  but  had 
placed  himself  in  front  of  a  chair  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  room — resolved  that  he  would  not 
use  it  unless  he  were  duly  asked. 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"'  he  said,  "  I  am  warm 
with  walking,  and,  if  you  please,  will  avoid  the 
fire." 

"You  have  not  walked,  Mr.  Crawley?" 

"Yes,  my  lord.     I  have  been  walking." 

"Not  from  Hogglestock!" 

Now  this  was  a  matter  which  Mr.  Crawley 
certainly  did  not  mean  to  discuss  with  the  bish- 
op. It  might  be  well  for  the  bishop  to  demand 
his  presence  in  the  palace,  but  it  could  be  no 
part  of  the  bisliop's  duty  to  inquire  how  he  got 
there.  "That,  my  lord,  is  a  matter  of  no  mo- 
ment," said  he.      "I  am  glad  at  any  rate  that 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


83 


I  have  been  enabled  to  obey  your  lordship's  or- 
der ill  coniin:,'  hitlicr  on  this  morning." 

Hitherto  Mrs.  Proudic  had  not  said  a  word. 
She  stood  back  in  the  room,  near  the  fire — 
more  backward  a  good  deal  tlian  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  do  when  clergymen  made  their  ordina- 
ry visits.  On  such  occasions  she  would  come 
forward  and  sliakc  hands  witii  them  graciously  , 
— graciously  even,  if  proudly;  but  she  had  felt 
that  she  must  do  nothing  of  that  kind  now ; 
there  must  be  no  shaking  hands  with  a  man 
who  had  stolen  a  check  for  twenty  pounds  !  It 
might  jirobably  be  necessary  to  keep  Mr.  Craw- 
ley at  a  distance,  and  tlierefore  she  had  re- 
mained in  the  back-ground.  But  Mr.  Crawley 
seemed  to  be  disposed  to  keep  himself  in  the 
back-ground,  and  therefore  she  could  speak.  "I 
hope  your  wife  and  children  arc  well,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley," she  said. 

"Thank  you,  madam,  my  children  arc  well, 
and  i\Irs.  Crawley  sutlers  no  special  ailmciit  at 
present." 

"  Tiiat  is  much  to  be  thankful  for,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley." Whether  he  were  or  were  not  thankful 
for  such  mercies  as  these  was  no  business  of 
the  bishop  or  of  the  bishop's  wife.  That  M'as 
between  him  and  his  God.  So  he  would  not 
even  bow  to  this  civility,  but  sat  with  his  head 
erect,  and  with  a  great  frown  on  his  heavy 
brow. 

Then  the  bishop  rose  from  his  chair  to  speak, 
intending  to  take  up  a  position  on  the  rug.  But 
as  he  did  so  Mr.  Crawley,  who  had  seated  him- 
self on  an  intimatioir  that  he  was  expected  to 
sit  down,  rose  also,  and  the  bishop  found  that 
lie  would  tlius  lose  his  expected  vantage.  "Will 
you  not  be  seated,  IMr.  Crawley?"  said  the  bish- 
op. ]\Ir.  Crawley  smiled,  but  stood  his  ground. 
Then  the  bishop  returned  to  his  arm-chair,  and 
Mr.  Crawley  also  sat  down  again.  "  3Ir.  Craw- 
ley," began  the  bishop,  "this  matter  which 
came  the  other  day  before  the  magistrates  at 
Silverbridge  has  been  a  most  unfortunate  af- 
fair. It  has  given  me,  I  can  assure  you,  the 
most  sincere  pain." 

Mr.  Crawley  had  made  up  his  mind  how  far 
the  bishop  should  be  allowed  to  go  without  a 
rebuke.  He  had  told  himself  that  it  would 
only  be  natural,  and  would  not  be  unbecoming, 
that  the  bishop  should  allude  to  the  meeting  of 
the  magistrates  and  to  the  alleged  theft,  and 
that  therefore  such  allusion  should  be  endured 
with  patient  humility.  And,  moreover,  the  more 
rope  he  gave  the  bishop,  the  more  likely  the 
bishop  would  be  to  entangle  himself.  It  cer- 
tainly was  IMr.  Crawley's  Avisli  that  the  bishop 
should  entangle  himself.  lie  therefore  replied 
very  meekly:  "It  has  been  most  unfortunate, 
my  lord." 

"I  have  felt  for  Mrs.  Crawley  veiy  deeply,"' 
said  I\Irs.  Proudie.  Mr.  Crawley  had  now  made 
lip  his  mind  that  as  long  as  it  was  possible  he 
would  ignore  the  presence  of  JMrs.  Proudie  alto- 
gether ;  and  therefore  he  made  no  sign  that  he 
had  heard  the  latter  remark. 

"It  has  been  most  unfortunate,"  continued 


the  bisho)).  "  I  have  never  before  had  a  cler- 
gyman in  my  diocese  placed  in  so  distressing  a 
position." 

"That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  my  lord,"  said 
Mr.  Crawley,  who  at  that  moment  thought  of -a 
crisis  Mhich  had  come  in  the  life  of  another 
clergyman  in  the  diocese  of  Barchester,  with 
the  circumstances  of  which  he  had  Iiy  ciiancc 
been  made  aciiuainted. 

"E.xactly,"  said  the  bishop.  "And  I  am 
expressing  my  o])inion."  ISIr.  Crawley,  who 
understood  fighting,  did  not  think  that  the  time 
had  yet  come  for  striking  a  blow,  so  he  simply 
bowed  again.  "A  most  unfortunate  ])osition, 
Mr.  Crawley,"  continued  the  bishop.  "Far  be 
it  from  me  to  express  an  opinion  ujjon  the  mat- 
ter, which  will  have  to  come  before  a  jury  of  your 
countrymen.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that 
the  magistrates  assembled  at  Silverbridge,  gen- 
tlemen to  whom  no  doubt  you  must  be  known, 
as  most  of  them  live  in  your  neighborhood,  have 
heard  evidence  upon  the  subject — " 

"  j\Iost  convincing  evidence,"  said  INIrs.  Prou- 
die, interrupting  her  husband.  Mr.  Crawley's 
black  brow  became  a  little  blacker  as  he  heard 
the  word,  but  still  he  ignored  the  woman.  He 
not  only  did  not  speak,  but  did  not  turn  his  eye 
upon  her. 

"They  have  heard  the  evidence  on  the  sub- 
ject," continued  tlie  bishop,  "  and  they  have 
thought  it  proper  to  refer  the  decision  as  to  your 
innocence  or  your  guilt  to  a  jury  of  your  coun- 
trymen." 

"  And  they  were  right,"  said  Jlr.  Crawley. 

"  Very  possibly.  I  don't  deny  it.  Proba- 
bly," said  the  bishop,  whose  eloquence  was 
somewhat  disturbed  by  Mr.  Crawley's  read}'  ac- 
quiescence. 

"  Of  course  they  were  right,"  said  IMrs.  Prou- 
dic. 

"  At  an}'  rate  it  is  so,"  said  the  bishop. 
"  Yon  are  in  the  position  of  a  man  amenable  to 
the  criminal  laws  of  the  land." 

"  There  are  no  criminal  laws,  my  lord,"  said 
Jlr.  Crawley  ;  "  but  to  such  laws  as  there  are  wo 
are  all  amenable — your  lordship  and  I  alike." 

"But  you  are  so  in  a  very  particular  way. 
I  do  not  wish  to  remind  you  what  mi;:ht  be  your 
condition  now  but  for  the  interposition  of  pri- 
vate friends." 

"  I  should  be  in  the  condition  of  a  man  not 
guilty  before  the  law  ;  guiltless  as  fur  as  the 
law  goes — but  kept  in  durance,  not  for  faults 
of  his  own,  but  because  otherwise,  by  reason  of 
laches  in  the  police,  his  presence  at  the  assizes 
might  not  be  insured.  In  such  a  i)osition  a 
man's  reputation  is  made  to  hang  for  a  while 
on  the  trust  which  some  friends  or  neighbors 
may  have  in  it.  I  do  not  say  that  the  test  is  a 
good  one." 

"You  would  have  been  put  in  i)rison,  Mr. 
Crawley,  because  the  magistrates  were  of  opin- 
ion that  you  had  taken  JMr.  Soames's  check," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie.  On  this  occasion  ho  did 
look  at  her.  He  turned  one  glance  upon  her 
from  under  his  eyebrows,  but  he  did  not  sjicak. 


84 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  With  all  that  I  have  notliing  to  do,"  said 
tlic  bisho]>. 

"Notliing  wliatevcr,  my  lord,"  said  Mv. 
Crawley. 

"  Hut,  hisiiop,  I  think  that  you  have,"  said 
Mrs.  I'roudie.  "The  judgment  formed  hy  the 
magistrates  as  to  the  conduct  of  one  of  your 
clerfiynien  makes  it  iini)criitivc  upon  you  to  act 
in  the  matter." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  yes;  I  am  coming  to  that. 
What  Mrs.  Prondie  says  is  i)erfectly  true.  I 
have  been  constrained  most  nnwilliiij:;ly  to  take 
action  in  this  matter.  It  is  undoubtedly  the 
fact  tliat  you  must  at  the  next  assizes  surrender 
yourself  at  the  court-house  yonder,  to  be  tried 
for  this  oflcnse  against  the  laws." 

"That  is  true.  If  I  be  alive,  my  lord,  and 
have  strength  sufficient,  I  shall  be  there." 

"You  must  be  there,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"The  police  will  look  to  that,  M\:  Crawley." 
She  was  becoming  very  angry  in  that  the  man 
would  not  answer  her  a  word.  On  this  occasion 
again  he  did  not  even  look  at  her. 

"Yes;  you  will  be  there,"  said  the  bishop. 
"Now  that  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  an  unseem- 
ly position  for  a  beneficed  clergyman." 

"  You  said  before,  my  lord,  that  it  was  an  un- 
fortunate position,  and  the  word,  methinks,  was 
better  chosen." 

"It  is  very  unseemly,  very  unseemly  indeed," 
said  ]Mrs.  Proudie  ;  "  nothing  could  possibly  be 
more  unseemly.  The  bishop  might  very  prop- 
erly have  used  a  much  stronger  word." 

"Under  these  circumstances,"  continued  the 
bishop,  "  looking  to  the  welfare  of  your  parish, 
to  the  welfare  of  the  diocese,  and  allow  me  to 
say,  jMr.  Crawley,  to  the  welfare  of  yourself 
also — " 

"And  especially  to  the  souls  of  the  people," 
said  IMrs.  Proudie. 

The  bishop  shook  his  head.  It  is  hard  to  be 
impressively  eloquent  when  one  is  interrupted 
at  every  best  turned  period,  even  by  a  support- 
ing voice.  "  I'es  ;  and  looking,  of  course,  to 
the  religious  interests  of  your  people,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be 
expedient  that  you  should  cease  your  ministra- 
tions for  a  while."  The  bishop  paused,  and  Mr. 
Crawley  bowed  his  head.  "  I  therefore  sent  over 
to  you  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  am  well  ac- 
quainted, Mr.  Thumble,  with  a  letter  from  my- 
self, in  which  I  endeavored  to  impress  upon  you, 
Avithout  the  use  of  any  severe  language,  what 
my  convictions  were." 

"Severe  words  are  often  the  best  mercy," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie.  jMr.  Crawley  had  raised  his 
hand,  with  his  finger  out,  preparatory  to  an- 
swering tiie  bishop.  But  as  Mrs.  Pi'ondie  had 
spoken  he  dropped  his  finger  and  was  silent. 

"Mr.  Thumble  brought  me  back  your  written 
reply,"  continued  the  bishop,  "by  which  I  was 
grieved  to  find  that  you  were  not  willing  to  sub- 
mit yourself  to  my  counsel  in  the  matter." 

"I  was  most  unwilling,  my  lord.  Submis- 
sion to  authority  is  at  times  a  duty — and  at  times 
opposition  to  authority  is  a  duty  also." 


"Oi)position  to  just  authority  can  not  be  a 
duty,  Mr.  Crawley." 

"  Opposition  to  usurped  authority  is  an  im- 
l)erative  duty,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"And  who  is  to  be  the  judge?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Proudie.  Then  there  was  silence  for  a 
wliilc ;  when,  as  ^Ir.  Crawley  made  no  repl}', 
the  lady  repeated  her  question.  "  Will  you  be 
pleased  to  answer  my  question.  Sir?  Who,  in 
such  a  case,  is  to  be  the  judge  ?"  But  Mr. 
Crawley  did  not  please  to  answer  her  question. 
"The  man  is  obstinate,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"I  had  better  proceed,"  said  the  bishop. 
"Mr.  Thumble  brought  me  back  your  reply, 
which  grieved  me  greatly." 

"It  was  contumacious  and  indecent,"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

The  bishop  again  shook  his  head,  and  looked 
so  unutterably  miserable  that  a  smile  came  across 
Mr.  Crawley's  face.  After  all,  others  besides 
himself  had  their  troubles  and  trials.  Mrs. 
Proudie  saw  and  understood  the  smile,  and  be- 
came more  angry  than  ever.  She  drew  her 
chair  close  to  the  table,  and  began  to  fidget  with 
her  fingers  among  the  papers.  She  had  never 
before  encountered  a  clergyman  so  contuma- 
cious, so  indecent,  so  unreverend,  so  upsetting. 
She  had  had  to  do  with  men  diflicult  to  man- 
age— the  archdeacon,  for  instance ;  but  the  arch- 
deacon had  never  been  so  impertinent  to  her  as 
this  man.  She  had  quarreled  once  openly  with 
a  chaplain  of  her  husband's,  a  clergyman  whom 
she  herself  had  introduced  to  her  husband,  and 
who  had  treated  her  very  badly — but  not  so  bad- 
ly, not  with  such  unscrupulous  violence,  as  she 
was  now  encountering  from  this  ill-clothed,  beg- 
garly man,  this  perpetual  curate,  with  his  dirty 
broken  boots,  this  already  half-convicted  thief! 
Such  was  her  idea  of  Mr.  Crawley's  conduct  to 
her  while  she  was  fingering  the  papers — simply 
because  Mr.  Crawley  would  not  speak  to  her. 

"I  forget  where  I  was,"  said  the  bishop. 
"  Oh  !  Mr.  Thumble  came  back,  and  I  received 
your  letter — of  course  I  received  it.  And  I  was 
surprised  to  learn  from  that,  that  in  spite  of 
what  had  occurred  at  Silverbridge,  you  were 
still  anxious  to  continue  the  usual  Sunday  min- 
istrations in  your  church." 

"I  was  determined  that  I  would  do  my  duty 
at  Ilogglestock  as  long  as  I  might  be  left  there 
to  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"Duty !"  said  INIrs.  Proudie. 

"Just  a  moment,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop. 
"  When  Sunday  came,  I  had  no  alternative  but 
to  send  Mr.  Thumble  over  again  to  Iloggle- 
stock. It  occurred  to  us — to  me  and  Mrs.  Prou- 
die— " 

"I  will  tell  Mr.  Crawdey  just  now  what  has 
occurred  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"Yes;  just  so.  And  I  am  sure  that  he  will 
take  it  in  good  part.  It  occurred  to  me,  Mr. 
Crawley,  that  your  first  letter  might  have  been 
written  in  haste." 

"  It  was  written  in  haste,  my  lord  ;  your  mes- 
senger was  waiting." 

"  Yes ;  just  so.     Well ;  so  I  sent  him  again, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


85 


hoping  that  he  might  be  accepted  as  a  messen- 
ger of  peace.  It  was  a  most  disagreeable  mis- 
sion for  any  gentleman,  Mr.  Crawley." 
"Most  disagreeable,  my  lord." 
"And  you  refused  him  permission  to  obey 
tlie  instructions  which  I  had  given  him !  You 
would  not  let  him  read  from  your  desk  or  preach 
from  your  pulpit." 

"liad  I  been  Mr.  Thumblc,"  said  Mrs.  Prou- 
die,  "  I  would  have,  read  from  that  desk,  and  I 
would  have  preached  from  that  pulpit." 

Mr.  Crawley  waited  a  moment,  thinking  that 
the  bishop  might  perhaps  speak  again ;  but  as 
he  did  not,  but  sat  expectant  as  though  he  had 
finislied  his  discourse,  and  now  expected  a  re- 
ply, Mr.  Crawley  got  up  from  his  scat  and  drew 
near  to  the  table.  "My  lord,"  he  began,  "it 
has  all  been  just  as  you  have  said.  I  did  an- 
swer your  first  letter  in  haste." 

"The  more  shame  for  you !"  said  Mrs.  I'rou- 
die. 

"And  therefore,  for  aught  I  know,  my  letter 
to  your  lordship  may  be  so  worded  as  to  need 
some  apology." 

"Of  course  it  needs  an  apology,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"But  for  the  matter  of  it,  my  lord,  no  apol- 
ogy can  be  made,  nor  is  any  needed.  I  did  re- 
fuse to  your  messenger  permission  to  perform 
the  services  of  my  church,  and  if  you  send 
twenty  more  I  shall  refuse  them  all — till  the 
time  may  come  when  it  will  be  your  lordship's 
duty,  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  the  Church 
■ — as  borne  out  and  "backed  by  the  laws  of  the 
land,  to  provide  during  my  constrained  absence 
for  the  spiritual  wants  of  those  poor  people  at 
Hogglestock." 

"Poor  people,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"  Poor  wretches !" 

"  And,  my  lord,  it  may  well  be  that  it  shall 
;  soon  bo  your  lordsliip's  duty  to  take  due  and 
'.  legal  steps  for  depriving  me  of  my  benefice  at 
Hogglestock — nay,  probably,  for  silencing  me 
,;  altogether  as  to  the  exercise  of  my  sacred  pro- 
:i  fession ! " 

!  "  Of  course  it  will.  Sir.  Your  gown  will  be 
]i  taken  from  you,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  The 
I  bishop  was  looking  with  all  his  eyes  up  at  the 
!  great  forehead  and  great  eyebrows  of  the  man, 
I;  and  was  so  fascinated  by  the  power  that  was 
exercised  over  him  by  the  other  man's  strength 
that  he  hardly  now  noticed  his  wife. 

"  It  may  well  be  so,"  continued  Mr.  Crawley. 
"The  circumstances  are  strong  against  me; 
and,  though  your  lordship  has  altogether  mis- 
understood the  nature  of  the  duty  performed  by 
the  magistrates  in  sending  my  case  for  trial — 
although,  as  it  seems  to  me,  you  have  come  to 
conclusions  in  this  matter  in  ignorance  of  the 
very  theory  of  our  laws — " 
"Sir!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"  Yet  I  can  foresee  the  probability  that  a 
jury  may  discover  me  to  have  been  guilty  of 
theft." 

"Of  course  the  jury  will  do  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 


"  Should  such  verdict  be  given,  then,  my  lord, 
your  interference  will  be  legal,  jiropcr,  and 
necessary.  And  you  will  find  that,  even  if  it 
be  within  my  power  to  oppose  obstacles  to  your 
lordship's  authority,  I  will  oppose  no  such  ob- 
stacle. There  is,  I  believe,  no  appeal  in  crim- 
inal cases." 

"None  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "Thercv 
is  no  appeal  against  your  bishop.  You  should 
have  learned  that  before." 

"  But  till  that  time  shall  come,  my  lord,  I 
shall  hold  my  own  at  Hogglestock  as  you  hold 
your  own  here  in  Barchester.  Nor  have  you 
more  power  to  turn  me  out  of  my  pulpit  by  your 
mere  voice  than  I  have  to  turn  you  out  of  your 
throne  by  mine.  If  you  doubt  me,  my  lord, 
your  lordship's  ecclesiastical  court  is  open  toj'ou. 
Try  it  there." 

"  You  defy  us,  then  ?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"My  lord,  I  grant  your  authority  as  bishop 
to  be  great,  but  even  a  bishop  can  only  act  as 
the  law  allows  him." 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  do  more !"  said  the 
bishop. 

■  "  Sir,  you  will  find  that  your  wicked  threats 
will  fall  back  upon  your  own  head,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"Peace,  woman!"  Mr.  Crawley  said,  ad- 
dressing her  at  last.  The  bishop  jumped  out 
of  his  chair  at  hearing  the  wife  of  his  bosom 
called  a  woman.  But  he  jumped  rather  in  ad- 
miration than  in  anger.  He  had  ajready  begun 
to  perceive  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  a  man  who 
had  better  be  left  to  take  care  of  the  souls  at 
Hogglestock,  at  any  rate  till  the  trial  should 
come  on. 

"Woman!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  rising  to  her 
feet  as  though  she  really  intended  some  personal 
encounter. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Crawlej',  "you  should 
not  interfere  in  these  matters;  You  simply  de- 
base your  husband's  high  ofHcc.  The  distaff 
were  more  fitting  for  you.  My  lord,  good- 
morning."  And  before  either  of  them  could 
speak  again  he  was  out  of  the  room,  and  through 
the  hall,  and  beyond  the  gate,  and  standing  bc- 
neatli  the  towers  of  the  cathedral.  Yes,  he  had, 
he  thought,  in  truth  crushed  tlie  bishop.  He 
had  succeeded  in  crumpling  the  bisliop  up  with- 
in the  clutch  of  his  fist. 

He  started  in  a  spirit  of  triumjih  to  walk  back 
on  his  road  toward  Hogglestock.  He  did  not 
think  of  the  long  distance  before  him  fur  the 
first  hour  of  his  journey.  He  had  had  his  vic- 
tory, and  the  remembrance  of  that  braced  his 
nerves  and  gave  elasticity  to  his  sinews,  and  he 
went  stalking  along  the  road  with  rajid  strides, 
muttering  to  himself  from  time  to  time  as  he 
went  along  some  word  about  ISIrs.  Proudie  and 
her  distaff.  Mr.  Thumble  would  not,  he  thought, 
come  to  him  again — not,  at  any  rate,  till  the 
assizes  were  drawing  near.  And  he  had  re- 
solved what  he  would  do  then.  When  the  day 
of  his  trial  was  near  he  would  himself  write  to 
the  bishop,  and  beg  that  provision  might  be 
made  for  his  church  in  the  event  of  the  verdict 


86 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


poinp;  apuinst  him.  His  fricnJ,  Dcnn  Arabin, 
was  to  be  lioinc  before  tliat  time,  and  the  idea 
had  occurred  to  him  oi  askinj;  tlic  dean  to  sec  to 
this;  but  now  the  otlier  would  be  tlic  more  in- 
dei)eudeut  course,  and  tlic  better.  And  there 
was  a  matter  as  to  which  lie  was  not  altoj^ether 
well  pleased  with  the  dean,  although  he  was  so 
conscious  of  his  own  ]>eculiarities  as  to  know 
that  he  could  hardly  trust  himself  for  a  judg- 
ment. But,  at  any  rate,  he  would  api)ly  to  the 
bishop — to  the  bishop  whom  he  had  just  left 
jirostratc  in  his  palace — when  the  time  of  his 
trial  should  be  close  at  hand. 

Full  of  such  thoughts  as  these  he  went  alonp; 
almost  gayly,  nor  felt  the  fatigue  of  the  road  till 
lie  had  covered  the  first  five  miles  out  of  Bar- 
chcstcr.  It  was  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  the 
thick  gloom  of  the  winter  evening  was  making 
itself  felt.  And  then  he  began  to  be  fatig\icd. 
He  had  not  as  yet  eaten  since  he  had  left  his 
home  in  tlie  morning,  and  he  now  ])ulled  a 
crust  out  of  liis  pocket  and  leaned  against  a  gate 
ns  he  crunched  it.  There  were  still  ten  miles 
before  him,  and  he  knew  that  such  an  addition 
to  the  work  he  had  already  done  would  task  him 
very  severely.  Farmer  Mangle  had  told  him 
that  he  would  not  leave  Framlcy  J\Iill  till  five, 
and  he  had  got  time  to  reach  Framlcy  ]\Iill  by 
that  time.  But  he  had  said  that  he  would  not 
return  to  Framley  Mill,  and  he  remembered  his 
suspicion  that  his  wife  and  farmer  IVIangle  be- 
tween theni  had  cozened  him.  No ;  he  would 
persevere  and  walk — walk,  though  he  should 
drop  upon  the  road.  He  was  now  nearer  fifty 
than  forty  years  of  age,  and  hardships  as  well 
as  time  had  told  u]>on  him.  He  knew  that 
though  his  strength  was  good  for  the  commence- 
ment of  a  hard  day's  work,  it  would  not  hold 
out  for  him  as  it  used  to  do.  He  knew  that  the 
last  four  miles  in  the  dark  night  would  be  very 
sad  witli  him.  But  still  he  persevered,  endeav- 
oring, as  he  went,  to  cherish  himself  with  the 
remembrance  of  his  triumph. 

He  passed  the  turning  going  down  to  Fram- 
lcy with  courage,  but  when  he  came  to  the  fin*- 
thcr  turning,  by  which  the  cart  would  return 
from  Framley  to  the  Hogglestock  road,  he  look- 
ed wistfully  down  the  road  for  farmer  Mangle. 
But  farmer  Mangle  was  still  at  the  mill,  wait- 
ing in  expectation  that  Mr.  Crawley  might 
come  to  him.  But  the  poor  traveler  ])aused 
here  ba.  for  a  minute,  and  then  went  on, 
stumbling  '  ough  the  mud,  striking  his  ill-cov-' 
ered  feet  against  the  rough  stones  in  the  darkj 
sweating  in  his  weakness,  almost  tottering  at 
times,  and  calculating  whether  his  remaining 
strength  would  serve  to  carry  him  home.  He 
had  almost  forgotten  the  bishop  and  his  wife 
before  at  last  he  grasped  t'lc  wicket-gate  lead- 
ing to  his  own  door. 

"Oh,  mamma,  here  is  papal" 

"But  where  is  the  cart?  I  did  not  hear  the 
wheels,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  think  papa  is  ill."  Then 
the  wifa  took  her  drooping  husband  by  both 
arms  and  strove  to  look  him  iu  the  face.     ' '  He 


has  walked  all  the  way,  and  he  is  ill,"  said 
Jane. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  am  very  tired,  but  not  ill. 
Let  inc  sit  down,  and  give  me  some  bread  and 
tea,  and  I  shall  recover  myself."  Then  Mrs. 
Crawley,  from  some  secret  hoard,  got  him  a 
small  modicum  of  spirits,  and  gave  him  meat 
and  tea,  and  he  was  docile ;  and,  obeying  her 
behests,  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  to  his  bed. 

"I  do  not  think  the  bishop  will  send  for  me 
again, "  he  said,  as  she  tucked  the  clothes  around 
him. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AVIIKKIO    DID    IT  COMK    FEOTI  ? 

WiiicN  Christmas  morning  came  no  emis- 
sary from  the  1)ishop  api)eared  at  Hogglestock 
to  interfere  with  the  ordinary  performance  of 
the  day's  services.  "I  think  we  need  fear  no 
further  disturbance,"  Mv.  Crawley  said  to  his 
wife — and  there  was  no  further  disturbance. 

On  the  day  after  his  walk  from  Framley  to 
Barchcstcr,  and  from  Barchcster  back  to  Hog- 
glestock, IMr.  Crawley  had  risen  not  much  the 
worse  for  his  labor,  and  had  gradually  given  to 
his  wife  a  full  account  of  what  had  taken  place. 
"A  poor  weak  man,"  he  said,  s])eaking  of  the 
bishop.  "  A  poor  weak  creature,  and  much  to 
be  pitied." 

"I  have  always  heard  that  she  is  a  violent 
woman." 

"Very  violent,  and  very  ignorant;  and  most 
intrusive  withal." 

"And  you  did  not  answer  her  a  word  ?" 

"At  last  my  forbearance  with  her  broke 
down,  and  I  bade  her  mind  her  distaff." 

"What — really?  Did  you  say  those  words 
to  her?" 

"Nay;  as  for  my  exact  words  I  can  not  re- 
member them.  I  was  thinking  more  of  the 
words  with  which  it  might  be  fitting  that  I 
should  answer  the  bishop.  But  I  certainly 
told  her  that  she  had  better  mind  her  distaff." 

"  And  how  did  she  behave  then  ?" 

"  I  did  not  wait  to  see.  The  bishop  had 
spoken,  and  I  had  replied  ;  and  why  should  I 
tarry  to  behold  the  woman's  violence?  I  had 
told  him  that  he  was  wrong  in  law,  and  that  I 
at  least  would  not  submit  to  usurped  authority. 
There  was  nothing  to  keep  me  longer,  and  so 
I  went  without  much  ceremony  of  leave-taking. 
There  had  been  little  ceremony  of  greeting  on 
their  part,  and  there  was  less  in  the  making  of 
adieux  on  mine.  They  had  told  me  that  I  was 
a  thief — " 

"  No,  Josiah — surely  not  so?  They  did  not 
use  that  very  word?" 

"  I  say  they  did  ;  they  did  use  the  very  word. 
But  stop.  I  am  wrong.  I  wrong  his  lordship, 
and  I  crave  pardon  for  having  done  so.  If  my 
memory  serve  me,  no  expression  so  harsh  es- 
caped from  the  bishop's  mouth.  He  gave  me, 
indeed,  to  understand  more  than  once  that  the 
action  taken  by  the  magistrates  was  tantamount 


tHE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


87 


to  a  conviction,  and  that  I  must  be  guilty  be- 
cause tlicy  liad  decided  tliat  there  was  evidence 
sufficient  to  justify  a  trial.  But  all  that  arose 
from  my  lord's  ignorance  of  tlie  administration 
of  the  laws  of  his  country.  lie  was  very  igno- 
rant— jHizzle-patcd,  as  yon  may  call  it — led  by 
the  nose  by  his  wife,  weak  as  water,  timid,  and 
vacillating.  But  he  did  not  wish,  I  think,  to 
be  insolent.  It  was  Mrs.  Proudic  who  told  me 
to  my  fticc  that  I  was  a — thief." 

"May  she  be  jjunished  for  the  cruel  word!" 
said  Mrs.  Crawley.  "May  the  remembrance 
that  she  has  spoken  it  come,  some  day,  heavily 
upon  her  heart ! " 

"'Vengeance  is  mine.  I  will  repay,' saith 
the  Lord,"  answered  Mr.  Crawley.  "Wc  may 
safely  leave  all  that  alone,  and  rid  our  minds 
of  such  wishes,  if  it  be  possible.  It  is  well,  I 
think,  that  violent  offenses,  when  committed, 
should  be  met  by  instant  rebuke.  To  turn  the 
other  cheek  instantly  to  the  smiter  can  hardly 
be  suitable  in  these  days,  when  the  hands  of  so 
many  are  raised  to  strike.  But  the  return  blow 
should  be  given  only  while  the  smart  remains. 
She  hurt  me  then;  but  what  is  it  to  me  now 
that  she  called  me  a  thief  to  my  face  ?  Do  I 
not  know  that,  all  the  country  round,  men  and 
women  are  calling  me  the  same  behind  my 
back  ?" 

"No,  Josiah,  yon  do  not  know  that.  They 
say  that  the  thing  is  very  strange — so  strange 
that  it  requires  a  trial ;  but  no  one  thinks  yon 
liave  taken  that  which  was  not  yonr  own." 

"I  think  I  did.  I  myself  think  I  took  that 
which  was  not  my  own.  JNIy  poor  head  suffers 
so — so  many  grievous  thoughts  distract  me,  that 
I  am  like  a  child,  and  know  not  what  I  do." 
As  he  spoke  tiius  he  put  both  hands  up  to  his 
head,  leaning  forward  as  though  in  anxious 
thought — as  though  he  were  striving  to  bring 
his  mind  to  bear  with  accuracy  upon  past  events. 
"It  could  not  have  been  mine,  and  yet — " 
Then  he  sat  silent,  and  made  no  effort  to  con- 
tinue his  speech. 

"And  yet?" — said  his  wife,  encouraging  him 
to  proceed.  If  she  could  only  learn  the  real 
truth,  she  thought  that  she  might  perha])3  yet 
save  him,  with  assistance  tVom  their  friends. 

"When  I  said  that  I  had  gotten  it  from  that 
man  I  must  have  been  mad." 

"  From  which  mau,  love  ?" 

"From  the  man  Soames — he  who  accuses 
me.  And  yet,  as  the  Lord  hears  me,  I  thought 
so  then.  The  truth  is,  that  there  are  times  when 
I  am  not — sane.  I  nm  not  a  tliiof — not  before 
God;  but  I  am — mad  at  times."  These  last 
words  he  spoke  very  slowly,  in  a  whisper — with- 
out any  excitement — indeed  with  a  composure 
which  was  horrible  to  witness.  And  what  he 
said  was  the  more  terrible  because  she  was  so 
well  convinced  of  tlie  truth  of  his  words.  Of 
course  lie  was  no  thief.  She  wanted  no  one  to 
tell  her  that.  As  he  himself  had  expressed  it, 
he  was  no  thief  before  God,  however  the  money 
might  have  come  into  his  possession.  That 
there  were  times  when  his  reason,  once  so  fine 


and  clear,  could  not  act,  could  not  be  trusted  to 
guide  him  right,  slie  had  gradually  come  to 
know  with  fear  and  trembling.  But  he  himself 
had  never  before  hinted  his  own  consciousness 
of  this  calamity.  Indeed  he  had  been  so  un- 
willing to  speak  of  himself  and  of  his  own  state 
that  she  had  been  unable  even  to  ask  him  a 
question  about  the  money — lest  he  should  sus- 
pect that  she  suspected  him.  Now  he  was  speak- 
ing— but  speaking  with  such  heart-rending  sad- 
ness that  she  could  hardly  urge  him  to  go  on. 

"  You  have  sometimes  been  ill,  Josiah,  as  any 
of  US  may  be,"  she  said,  "and  that  has  been  the 
cause." 

"  There  are  different  kinds  of  sickness.  There 
is  sickness  of  the  body,  and  sickness  of  the  heart, 
and  sickness  of  the  spirit — and  then  there  is  sick- 
ness of  the  mind,  the  worst  of  all." 

"With  yon,  Josiah,  it  has  chiefly  been  the 
first." 

"With  me,  Mary,  it  has  been  all  of  them — 
every  one !  My  spirit  is  broken,  and  my  mind 
has  not  been  able  to  keep  its  even  tenor  amidst 
the  ruins.  But  I  ijill  strive.  I  will  strive.  I 
will  strive  still.  And  if  God  helj  s  me,  I  will 
prevail."  Then  he  took  np  his  hat  and  cloak, 
and  went  forth  among  the  lanes;  and  on  this 
occasion  his  wife  was  glad  that  he  sliould  go 
alone. 

This  occurred  a  day  or  two  before  Cliristmas, 
and  Mrs.  Crawley  during  those  da}s  said  no- 
thing more  to  her  husband  on  the  subject  which 
he  had  so  unexpectedly  discussed.  She  asked 
him  no  questions  about  the  money,  or  as  to  the 
possibility  of  his  exercising  his  memory,  nor  did 
she  counsel  him  to  plead  that  the  fiilse  excuses 
given  by  him  for  his  possession  of  the  check  had 
been  occasioned  by  the  sad  slip  to  whicli  sorrow 
had  in  those  days  subjected  his  memory  and  his 
intellect.  But  the  matter  had  always  been  on 
her  mind.  Might  it  not  be  her  paramount  duty 
to  do  something  of  this  at  the  present  moment? 
Might  it  not  be  that  his  acquittal  or  conviction 
would  depend  on  what  she  might  now  learn 
from  him  ?  It  was  clear  to  her  that  he  was 
brighter  in  spirit  since  his  encounter  with  the 
Proudics  than  he  had  ever  becTi  since  the  accu- 
sation had  been  first  made  against  him.  And 
she  knew  Avell  that  his  present  mood  would  not 
be  of  long  continuance.  He  would  fall  again 
into  his  moody,  silent  ways,  and  then  the  chance 
of  learning  aught  from  him  would  '  ^last,  and 
perhaps  forever.  , 

He  performed  the  Christmas  services  with 
nothing  of  special  despondency  in  his  tone  or 
manner,  and  his  wife  thought  that  she  had  nev- 
er heard  him  give  the  sacrament  with  more  im- 
pressive dignity.  After  the  service  he  stood 
a  while  at  the  chnrcih-yard  gate,  and  exchanged 
a  word  of  courtesy  as  to  the  season  with  such 
of  the  families  of  the  farmers  as  had  staid  for 
the  Lord's  supper. 

"I  waited  at  Framlcy  fur  your  reverence  till 
arter  six — so  I  did,"  said  farmer  Mf  ngle. 

"  I  kept  the  road  and  walked  the  whole  Avay," 
said  Mr.  Crawler.      "I  think  I  told  vou  that  I 


88 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


should  not  return  to  the  mill.  But  I  am  not 
ihe  less  ul)liy;eil  by  your  {^reiit  kindness." 

**  iSay  nowt  o'  that,"  said  the  fanner.  "  No 
doubt  I  had  business  at  the  mill — lots  to  do  at 
Ihe  mill."  Nor  did  he  think  that  the  lib  he  was 
lolling  was  at  all  iuconii)atihle  with  the  Holy 
bacrameut  in  which  lie  had  just  taken  a  j)art. 

The  Ciiristnias  dinner  at  the  parsonage  was 
not  a  rejiast  tliat  did  nuich  honor  to  the  sea- 
son, hut  it  was  a  better  dinner  than  the  inhab- 
itants of  that  house  usually  saw  on  the  board 
before  them.  Tiiere  was  roast  ])ork  and  niincc- 
jiies,  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  As  Mrs.  Crawley 
with  her  own  hand  put  the  meat  u])on  the  table, 
and  then,  as  was  her  custom  in  their  house,  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  it  up,  she  looked  at  her  husband's 
face  to  sec  whether  he  was  scrutinizing  the  food 
with  painful  eye.  It  was  better  that  she  should 
tell  the  truth  at  once  than  that  she  should  be 
made  to  tell  it  in  answer  to  a  question.  Every 
thing  on  the  table,  except  the  bread  and  potatoes, 
had  come  in  a  basket  from  Framlcy  Court. 
I'ork  had  been  sent  instead  of  beef,  because  peo- 
ple in  tlic  country,  when  th(^'  kill  their  pigs,  do 
sometimes  give  each  other  pork — but  do  not 
exchange  joints  of  beef  when  they  slay  their 
oxen.  All  this  was  understood  by  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley, but  she  almost  wished  that  beef  had  been 
sent,  because  beef  would  have  attracted  less  at- 
tention. He  said,  however,  notliing  to  the  meat ; 
but  when  his  wife  proposed  to  him  that  he  should 
eat  a  mince-pic  he  resented  it.  "The  bare 
food,"  said  he,  "is  bitter  enough,  coming  as  it 
does  ;  but  that  would  choke  me."  She  did  not 
press  it,  but  ate  one  herself,  as  otherwise  her  girl 
would  have  been  forced  also  to  refuse  the  dainty. 

Tliat  evening,  as  soon  as  Jane  was  in  bed, 
she  resolved  to  ask  him  some  further  questions. 
"You  will  have  a  lawyer,  Josiah,  will  you 
not?"  she  said. 

"Why  should  I  have  a  lawyer?" 

"Because  he  will  know  what  questions  to 
ask,  and  how  questions  on  the  other  side  should 
be  answered." 

"I  have  no  questions  to  ask,  and  there  is 
only  one  way  in  which  questions  should  be  an- 
swered.    I  have  no  money  to  jiay  a  lawyer." 

"  But,  Josiah,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  where 
your  honor,  and  our  very  life  depend  upon  it — " 

' '  Depend  on  what  ?" 

"  On  your  acquittal." 

"  I  shall  not  be  acquitted.  It  is  as  well  to 
look  it  in  the  face  at  once.  Lawyer,  or  no  law- 
yer, they  will  say  that  I  took  the  money.  Were 
I  upon  the  jury,  trying  the  case  myself,  know- 
ing all  that  I  know  now" — and  as  he  said  this 
he  struck  forth  with  his  hands  into  the  air — "  I 
think  tliat  I  should  say  so  myself.  A  lawyer 
will  do  no  good.  It  is  here.  It  is  here."  And 
again  he  put  his  hands  up  to  his  head. 

So  ftir  she  had  been  successful.  At  this  mo- 
ment it  had  in  truth  been  her  object  to  induce 
him  to  speak  of  his  own  memory,  and  not  of  the 
aid  that  a  lawyer  might  give.  The  proposition 
of  the  lawyer  had  been  brought  in  to  introduce 
the  subject. 


"  But,  Josiah—" 

"Well?" 

It  was  very  hard  for  her  to  speak.  She  could 
not  bear  to  torment  him  by  any  allusion  to  his 
own  deficiencies.  She  could  not  endure  to 
make  him  think  that  she  suspected  him  of  any 
frailty  either  in  intellect  or  thouglit.  Wifelikc, 
she  desired  to  worship  him,  and  that  he  should 
know  that  she  worshiped  him.  But  if  a  word 
might  save  him!  "Josiah,  where  did  it  come 
from  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  he;  "yes;  that  is  the  question. 
Where  did  it  come  from  ?"  and  he  turned  sharp 
upon  her,  looking  at  her  with  all  the  ))ower  of 
his  eyes.  "It  is  because  I  can  not  tell  you 
where  it  came  from  that  I  ought  to  be — either 
in  Bedlam  as  a  madman,  or  in  the  county  jail 
as  a  thief."  The  words  were  so  dreadful  to  her 
that  she  could  not  utter  at  the  moment  anotlier 
syllable.  "  How  is  a  man — to  think  himself — 
fit — for  a  man's  work,  when  he  can  not  answer 
his  wife  such  a  jilain  question  as  tliat  ?"  Then 
he  paused  again.  "They  should  take  me  to 
Bedlam  at  once — at  once — at  once.  That  would 
not  disgrace  the  children  as  the  jail  will  do." 

Mrs.  Crawley  could  ask  no  further  questions 
on  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AVIIAT    MR.    WALKKR    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT. 

It  had  been  suggested  to  Mr.  Robarts,  the 
parson  of  Framlcy,  that  he  should  endeavor  to 
induce  his  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Crawley,  to 
femjjloy  a  lawyer  to  defend  him  at  his  trial,  and 
Mr.  Robarts  had  not  forgotten  the  commission 
which  he  had  undertaken.  But  there  were 
difficulties  in  the  matter  of  which  he  was  well 
aware.  In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Crawley  was  a 
man  whom  it  had  not  at  any  time  been  easy  to 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


89 


advise  on  matters  private  to  liimself;  and,  in 
tlie  next  place,  this  was  a  matter  on  wliicli  it 
was  veiy  liard  to  speak  to  the  man  implicated, 
let  him  be  who  he  would.  !Mr.  Robarts  had 
come  roxmd  to  the  generally  accepted  idea  that 
Mr.  Crawley  had  obtained  ])ossession  of  the 
check  illegally — acquitting  his  friend  in  his  own 
mind  of  theft,  simply  by  supposing  that  he  was 
wool-gathering  when  tlie  check  came  in  his  way. 
i  But  in  speaking  to  Mr.  Crawley  it  would  be 
necessary — so  he  thought — to  pretend  a  con- 
viction that  Mr.  Crawley  was  as  innocent  in  foct 
as  in  intention. 

He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  dash  at 
the  subject  when  he  met  Mr.  Crawley  walking 
througli  Framley  to  Barchester ;  but  he  had  ab- 
stained, chiefly  because  Mr.  Crawley  had  been 
too  quick  for  him,  and  had  got  away.  After 
that  he  resolved  that  it  would  be  almost  useless 
for  him  to  go  to  work  imless  he  should  be  pro- 
vided with  a  lawyer  ready  and  willing  to  under- 
take the  task  ;  and  as  he  was  not  so  provided  at 
present  he  made  ^ap  his  mind  that  he  would  go 
into  Silverbridge  and  see  Mr.  Walker,  the  attor- 
ney there.  Jlr.  Walker  always  advised  every 
body  in  those  parts  about  every  thing,  and  would 
be  sure  to  know  what  would  be  the  proper  thing 
to  be  done  in  this  case.  So  Mr.  Robarts  got 
into  his  gig  and  drove  himself  into  Silverbridge, 
passing  very  close  to  Mr.  CraAvley's  house  on  his 
road.  He  drove  at  once  to  Mr.  Walker's  ofBce, 
and  on  arriving  there  found  that  the  attorney 
was  not  at  that  moment  within.  But  Mr.  Win- 
tlirop  was  within.  Would  Mr.  Robarts  see  Mr. 
Winthrop  ?  Now  seeing  Mr.  Winthrop  was  a 
very  difFerent  thing  from  seeing  Mr.  AValker,  al- 
though the  two  gentlemen  were  partners.  But 
still  Mr.  Robarts  said  that  he  would  see  Mr. , 
Winthrop.  Perhaps  Mr.  Walker  niiglit  return 
while  he  was  there. 

"Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr. 
Robarts?"  asked  Mr.  Winthrop.  Mr.  Robarts 
said  that  he  had  wished  to  see  Mr.  Walker  about 
that  poor  fellow  Crawley.  "Ah.  yes ;  \ery  sad 
case !  So  much  sadder  being  a  clergyman,  Mr. 
Robarts.  We  are  really  quite  sorry  for  him — 
we  are  indeed.  We  wouldn't  have  touched  the 
case  ourselves  if  we  could  have  helped  ourselves. 
We  wouldn't  indeed.  But  w^e  are  obliged  to 
take  all  that  business  here.  At  any  rate,  he'll 
get  nothing  but  fair  usage  from  us." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that.  You  don't  know  wheth- 
'  er  he  has  employed  any  lawyer  as  yet  to  defend 
ihim?" 

"I  can't  say.  We  don't  know,  you  know. 
I  should  say  he  had — probably  some  Barchester 
attorney.  Borleys  and  Bonstock  in  Barchester 
are  very  good  people — very  good  people  indeed 
— for  that  sort  of  business  I  mean,  Mr.  Robarts. 
I  don't  suppose  they  have  much  county  property 
in  their  hands." 

Mr.  Robarts  knew  that  Mr.  Winthrop  was  a 
fool,  and  that  he  could  get  no  useful  advice 
from  him.  So  he  suggested  that  he  would  take 
his  gig  down  to  the  inn,  and  call  back  again  be- 
fore long.      "  You'll  find  that  Walker  knows  no 


more  than  I  do  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Winthrop ; 
"  but  of  course  he'll  be  glad  to  see  you  if  he 
happens  to  come  in."  So  Mr.  Robarts  went  to 
the  inn,  put  up  his  horse,  and  then,  as  he  saun- 
tered back  up  the  street,  met  Mr.  Walker  coming 
out  of  the  private  door  of  his  house. 

"I've  been  at  home  all  the  morning,"  he  said, 
"  but  I've  had  a  stiff  job  of  work  on  hand,  and 
told  them  to  say  in  the  oflice  that  I  was  not  in. 
Seen  Winthrop,  have  you?  I  don't  suppose 
he  did  know  that  I  was  here.  The  clerks  often 
know  more  than  the  partners.  About  Mr. 
Crawley,  is  it?  Come  into  my  dining-room, 
Mr.  Robarts,  where  we  shall  be  alone.  Yes — 
it  is  a  bad  case ;  a  very  bad  case.  The  pity  is 
that  any  body  should  ever  have  said  any  thing 
about  it.  Lord  bless  me !  if  I'd  been  Soames 
I'd  have  let  him  have  the  twenty  pounds.  Lord 
Lufton  would  never  have  allowed  Soames  to  lose 
it." 

"  But  Soames  wanted  to  find  out  the  truth."' 

"Yes;  that  was  just  it.  Soames  couldn't 
bear  to  think  that  he  should  be  left  in  the  dark, 
and  then,  when  the  poor  man  said  that  Soames 
had  paid  the  check  to  him  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness— it  was  not  odd  that  Soames's  back  should 
have  been  up,  was  it?  But,  Mr.  Robarts,  I 
should  have  thought  a  deal  about  it  before  I 
should  have  brought  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Craw- 
ley before  a  bench  of  magistrates  on  that 
charge." 

"But  between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Walker,  did 
he  steal  the  money  ?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Robarts,  you  know  how  I'm 
placed." 

"  Mr.  Crawley  is  my  friend,  and  of  course  I 
want  to  assist  him.  I  was  under  a  great  obliga- 
tion to  Mr.  Crawley  once,  and  I  wish  to  befriend 
him,  whether  he  took  the  money  or  not.  But 
I  could  act  so  much  better  if  I  felt  sure  one  way 
or  tlie  other." 

"If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  did  take  it." 

"What!— stole  it?" 

"I  think  he  knew  it  was  not  his  own  when 
he  took  it.  You  see  I  don't  think  he  meant  to 
tise  it  when  he  took  it.  He  perhaps  had  some 
queer  idea  that  Soames  had  been  hard  on  him, 
or  his  lordship,  and  that  the  money  was  fairly 
his  due.  Then  he  kept  the  check  by  him  till 
he  was  absolutely  badgered  out  of  his  life  by 
the  butcher  up  the  street  there.  That  was 
about  the  long  and  the  short  of  it,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"I  suppose  so.  And  now  what  had  he  bet- 
ter do  ?" 

' '  Well ;  if  yon  ask  me — •  He  is  iu  rery  bad 
health,  isn't  he?" 

"No;  I  should  say  not.  He  walked  to  Bar- 
chester and  back  the  other  day." 

"  Did  he  ?     But  he's  very  queer,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  Very  odd-mannered  Indeed." 

"And  does  and  says  all  manner  of  odd 
things?"' 

"I  think  you'd  find  the  bishop  would  say  so 
after  that  interview." 

"  Well ;  if  it  would  do  any  good  you  might 
have  the  bishop  examined." 


90 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"Examined  for  what,  Mr.  Walker?" 
"If  you  could  show,  you  know,  that  Crawley 
has  got  a  bcc  in  his  bonnet ;  that  the  mens  sana 
is  not  there,  in  short — I  think  you  might  man- 
age to  have  the  trial  postponed. " 

"But  tlicn  somebody  must  take  charge  of 
his  living." 

"You  parsons  could  manage  that  among 
you — you  and  the  dean  and  tlio  archdeacon. 
The  archdeacon  has  always  got  half  a  dozen 
curates  about  somewlierc.  And  then — after  the 
assizes,  Mr.  Crawley  might  come  to  his  senses  ; 
and  I  think — mind,  it's  only  an  idea — but  I 
think  the  committal  might  be  quashed.  It 
■vvould  have  been  tcm])orary  insanity,  and  though, 
mind,  I  don't  give  my  word  for  it,  I  think  he 
might  go  on  and  keep  his  living.  I  think  so, 
Mr.  Robarts." 

"  That  has  never  occurred  to  me." 
"  No ;  I  dare  say  not.  You  see  the  difficulty 
is  this.  He's  so  stitf-necked — will  do  nothing 
himself.  "Well,  that  will  do  for  one  proof  of 
temporary  insanity.  The  real  truth  is,  Mr.  Ro- 
barts, he  is  as  mad  as  a  hatter." 

"Upon  my  word  I've  often  thought  so." 
"And  you  wouldn't  mind  saying  so  in  evi- 
dence— would  you  ?  Well,  you  see,  there  is  no 
helping  such  a  man  in  any  other  way.  He 
won't  even  employ  a  lawyer  to  defend  him." 
"  That  was  what  I  had  come  to  you  about." 
"  I'm  told  he  won't.  Now  a  man  must  be 
mad  who  won't  employ  a  lawyer  when  he  wants 
one.  You  see,  the  point  we  should  gain  would 
be  this — if  we  tried  to  get  him  through  as  being 
a  little  touched  in  the  upper  story — whatever 
we  could  do  for  him,  we  could  do  against  his 
own  will.  The  more  he  opposed  us  tlic  stron- 
ger our  case  would  be.  He  would  swear  he 
was  not  mad  at  all,  and  we  should  say  that  that 
was  the  greatest  sign  of  his  madness.  But  when 
I  say  we,  of  course  I  mean  you.  I  must  not 
appear  in  it." 

"  I  wish  you  could,  Mr.  Walker." 
"Of  course  I  can't;   but  that  won't  make 
any  difference." 

"I  suppose  he  must  have  a  lawyer?" 
"  Yes,  he  must  have  a  lawyer — or  rather  his 
friends  must." 

"And  who  should  employ  him,  ostensibly?" 
"Ah!  there's  the  difficulty.    His  wife  wouldn't 
do  it,  I  suppose?     She  couldn't  do  him  a  bet- 
ter turn." 

"He  would   never  forgive   her.     And  she 
would  never  consent  to  act  against  him." 
"  Could  you  interfere?" 
"If  necessary  I  will — but  I  hardly  know  him 
well  enougli." 

"Has  he  no  father  or  mother,  or  uncles  or 
aunts?  He  must  have  somebody  belonging  to 
him,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

Then  it  occun-ed  to  Mr.  Robarts  that  Dean 
Arabin  would  be  the  proper  person  to  interfere. 
Dean  Arabin  and  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  inti- 
mate friends  in  early  life,  and  Dean  Arabin 
knew  more  of  him  than  did  any  man,  at  least  in 
those  parts.     All  this  JMr.  Robarts  explained  to 


Mr.  Walker,  and  Mr.  Walker  agreed  with  him 
tliat  the  services  of  Dean  Arabin  should  if  possi- 
ble be  obtained.  Mr.  Robarts  would  at  onco 
write  to  Dean  Arabin  and  explain  at  length  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  case.  "The  worst  of 
it  is,  he  will  hardly  be  home  in  time,"  said  Mr. 
Walker.  "Perhaps  he  would  come  a  littlo 
sooner  if  you  were  to  press  it  ?" 

"But  we  could  act  in  his  name  in  his  ab- 
sence, I  suppose? — of  course  with  his  author- 
ity?" 

"  I  wish  he  could  be  here  a  month  before  tho 
assizes,  Mr.  Robarts.      It  would  be  better." 

"And  in  the  mean  lime  shall  I  s.iy  any  thing 
to  Mr.  Crawley,  myself,  about  employing  a  law- 
yer?" 

"I  think  I  would.  If  he  turns  upon  you, 
as  like  enough  he  may,  and  abuses  you,  that 
will  help  us  in  oneway.  If  he  should  consent, 
and  perhajis  lie  may,  that  would  hel])  us  in  the 
other  way.  I'm  told  he's  been  over  and  upset 
the  whole  coach  at  the  palace." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  the  bishoi>  got  much  out 
of  him,"  said  the  parson. 

"I  don't  like  Crawley  the  less  for  speaking 
his  mind  free  to  the  bishop,"  said  the  attorney, 
laughing.  "And  he'll  speak  it  free  to  you  too, 
Mr.  Robarts." 

"  He  won't  break  any  of  my  bones.  Tell  me, 
Mr.  Walker,  what  lawyer  shall  I  name  to  him?" 

"  You  can't  have  a  better  man  than  Mr.  Ma- 
son, up  the  street  there." 

"  Winthrop  proposed  Borleys  at  Barchester." 

"  No,  no,  no.  Borleys  and  Bonstock  arc  cap- 
ital people  to  push  a  fellow  through  on  a  charge 
of  horse-stealing,  or  to  squeeze  a  man  for  a  little 
money ;  but  they  arc  not  the  people  for  Mr. 
Crawley  in  such  a  case  as  this.  Mason  is  a 
better  man  ;  and  then  Mason  and  I  know  each 
other."     In  saying  which  Mr.  Walker  winked. 

There  was  then  a  discussion  between  them 
whether  Mr.  Robarts  should  go  at  once  to  Mr. 
Mason  ;  but  it  was  decided  at  last  that  he  should 
see  Mr.  Crawley  and  also  write  to  the  dean  be- 
fore he  did  so.  The  dean  might  wish  to  em- 
ploy his  own  lawyer,  and  if  so  the  double  ex- 
pense should  be  avoided.  "  Alwaj^s  remember, 
Mr.  Robarts,  that  when  you  go  into  an  attor- 
ney's office  door,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  it, 
first  or  last.  In  here,  you  see,  the  dingy  old 
mahogany,  bare  as  it  is,  makes  you  safe.  Or 
else  it's  the  salt-cellar,  which  will  not  allow  it- 
self to  be  polluted  by  six-and-eightpenny  con- 
siderations. But  there  is  the  other  kind  of  tax 
to  be  paid.  You  must  go  up  and  see  Mrs. 
Walker,  or  you  won't  have  her  help  in  this  mat- 
ter." 

Mr.  Walker  returned  to  his  work,  either  to 
some  private  den  within  his  house,  or  to  his  of- 
fice, and  Mr.  Robarts  was  taken  up  stairs  to  the 
di'awing-room.  Tliere  he  found  Mrs.  Walker 
and  her  daughter,  and  Miss  Anne  Prcttyman, 
who  had  just  looked  in,  full  of  the  story  of  Mr. 
Crawley's  walk  to  Barchester.  Mr.  Thumble 
had  seen  one  of  Dr.  Tempest's  curates,  and  had 
told  the  whole  story ;  he,  Mr.  Thumble,  having 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 


91 


heard  jrrs.  Prouclic's  version  of  what  had  oc- 
curred, and  having,  of  course,  drawn  his  own 
deductions  from  her  premises.  And  it  seemed 
that  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  watched  as  lie  pass- 
ed through  the  close  out  of  Barchester.  A  mi- 
nor canon  had  seen  him,  and  had  declared  that 
be  was  going  at  the  rate  of  a  hunt,  swinging  his 
arms  on  high  and  speaking  very  loud,  though — 
as  the  minor  canon  said  with  regret — the  words 
were  hardly  audible.  But  there  had  been  no 
doubt  as  to  the  man.  IMr.  Crawley's  old  hat, 
and  short,  rusty  cloak,  and  dirty  boots  had  been 
duly  observed  and  chronicled  by  the  minor  can- 
on ;  and  Mr.  Thumble  had  been  enabled  to  put 
together  a  not  altogether  false  picture  of  what 
had  occurred.  As  seon  as  the  greetings  be- 
tween IMr.  Robarts  and  the  ladies  had  been 
made,  Jliss  Anne  Prcttyman  broke  out  again, 
just  where  she  had  left  off  when  Mr.  Robarts 
came  in.  "  They  say  that  Mrs.  Proudie  declared 
that  she  will  have  him  sent  to  Botany  Bay !" 

"Luckily  Mrs.  Proudie  won't  have  much  to 
do  in  the  matter,"  said  Miss  Walker,  who  ranged 
herself,  as  to  church  matters,  in  ranks  altogether 
opposed  to  those  commanded  by  Mrs.  Pi'oudie. 

"She  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walker;  "  and  I  dare  say  Mrs. 
Proudie  was  not  foolish  enough  to  say  any  thing 
of  the  kind." 

"  IMamma,  she  would  be  fool  enough  to  say 
any  thing.     Would  she  not,  Mr.  Robarts  ?" 

"  You  forget.  Miss  Walker,  that  Mrs.  Proudie 
is  in  authority  over  me." 

"  So  she  is,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  said  the 
}-oung  lady;  "but  I  know  yery  well  what  you 
all  think  of  her,  and  say  of  her  too,  at  Framley. 
Your  friend,  Lady  Lufton,  loves  her  dearly.  I 
wish  I  could  have  been  hidden  behind  a  cur- 
tain in  the  palace  to  hear  what  Mr.  Crawley 
said  to  her." 

"  Mr.  Smillie  declares,"  said  Miss  Anne  Pret- 
tyraan,  "  that  the  bishop  has  been  ill  ever  since. 
Mr.  Smillie  went  over  to  his  mother's  at  Bar- 
chester for  Christmas,  and  took  part  of  the  ca- 
thedral duty,  and  we  had  Mr.  Spooner  over  here 
in  his  place.  So  Mr.  Smillie  of  course  heard 
all  about  it.  Only  fancy  poor  Mr.  Crawley 
walking  all  the  way  from  Hogglestock  to  Bar- 
chester and  back ;  and  I  am  told  he  hardly  had 
a  shoe  to  his  foot!  Is  it  not  a  shame,  Mr. 
Robarts?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  so  bad  as  you  say, 
Miss  Pretty  man ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  I  do 
think  it  is  a  shame.     But  what  can  we  do?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  tithes  at  Hogglestock. 
Why  are  they  not  given  up  to  the  church,  as 
they  ought  to  be?" 

"]\Iy  dear  Miss  Prettyman,  that  is  a  very 
large  subject,  and  I  am  afraid  it  can  not  be  set- 
tled in  time  to  relieve  our  poor  friend  from  his 
distress."  Then  Mr.  Robarts  escaped  from  the 
ladies  in  Mr.  Walker's  house,  who,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  were  touching  upon  dangerous  ground, 
and  went  back  to  tlie  yard  of  the  George  Inn 
for  his  gig — the  George  and  Vulture  it  was 
properly  called,  and  was  the  house  in  which  the 


magistrates  had  sat  when  they  committed  Mr. 
Crawley  for  trial. 

"Footed  it  every  inch  of  the  way,  blowed  if 
he  didn't!"  the  hostler  was  saying  to  a  gentle- 
man's groom,  whom  Mr.  Robarts  recognized  to 
be  the  servant  of  his  friend,  Major  Grantly; 
and  Mr.  Robarts  knew  that  they  also  were  talk- 
ing about  Mr.  Crawley.  Every  body  in  the 
county  was  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley.  At 
home,  at  Framley,  there  was  no  other  subject  . 
of  discourse.  Lady  Lufton,  the  dowager,  was 
full  of  it,  being  firmly  convinced  that  Mr.  Craw- 
ley was  innocent,  because  the  bishop  was  sup- 
posed to  regard  him  as  guilty.  There  had  been 
a  family  conclave  held  at  Framley  Court  over 
that  basket  of  provisions  which  had  been  sent 
for  the  Christmas  cheer  of  the  Hogglestock  par- 
sonage, each  of  the  three  ladies,  the  two  Lady 
Luftons  and  Mrs.  Robarts,  having  special  views 
of  tlieir  own.  How  the  pork  had  been  substi- 
tuted for  the  beef  by  old  Lady  Lufton,  young 
Lady  Lufton  thinking  that  after  all  the  beef 
would  be  less  dangerous,  and  how  a  small  tur- 
key had  been  rashly  suggested  by  Mrs.  Robarts, 
and  how  certain  small  articles  had  been  inserted 
in  the  bottom  of  the  basket  which  Mrs.  Crawley 
had  never  shown  to  her  husband,  need  not  here 
be  told  at  length.  But  Mr.  Robarts,  as  he  heard 
the  two  grooms  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley,  be- 
gan to  feel  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  achieved  at 
least  celebrity. 

The  groom  touched  his  hat  as  Mr.  Robarts 
walked  up.  "  Has  the  major  returned  home 
yet  ?"  ]\Ir.  Robarts  asked.  The  groom  said  that 
his  master  was  still  at  Plumstead,  and  that  he 
was  to  go  over  to  Plumstead  to  fetch  the  major 
and  Miss  Edith  in  a  day  or  two.  Then  Mr. 
Robarts  got  into  his  gig,  and  as  he  drove  out 
of  the  yard  he  heard  the  words  of  the  men  as 
they  returned  to  the  same  subject.  "  Footed  it 
all  the  way,"  said  one.  "And  yet  he's  a  gen- 
'leman,  too,"  said  the  other.  Mr.  Robarts 
thought  of  this  as  he  drove  on,  intending  to  call 
at  Hogglestock  on  that  very  day  on  his  way 
home.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Crawley  was  recognized  to  be  a  gentleman  by 
all  who  knew  him,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  by 
those  who  thought  well  of  him  and  by  those  who 
thought  ill.  These  grooms,  who  had  been  tell- 
ing each  other  that  this  parson,  who  was  to  be 
tried  as  a  thief,  had  been  constrained  to  walk 
from  Hogglestock  to  Barchester  and  back,  be- 
cause he  could  not  afford  to  travel  in  any  oth- 
er Avay,  and  that  his  boots  were  cracked  and  his 
clothes  ragged,  had  still  known  him  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman !  Nobody  doubted  it ;  not  even  they 
who  thought  he  had  stolen  the  money.  Mr. 
Robarts  himself  was  certain  of  it,  and  told  him- 
self that  he  knew  it  by  evidences  which  his  own 
education  made  clear  to  him.  But  how  was 
it  that  the  grooms  knew  it?  For  my  part  I 
think  that  there  are  no  better  judges  of  the  arti- 
cle than  tlie  grooms. 

Thinking  still  of  all  which  he  had  heard,  Mr. 
Robarts  found  himself  at  Mr.  Crawley's  gate  at 
Hogglestock. 


92 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MR.  ROHARTS    (IN    HIS    EM15ASSY. 

Mr.  Robarts  was  not  nltogctlicr  easy  in  his 
mind  as  lie  approaclied  Mr.  Crawley's  honse. 
He  wns  aware  that  the  task  hofore  him  was  a 
very  ilillicult  one,  aiul  he  had  not  confidence  in 
himself — that  he  was  exactly  the  man  fitted  for 
the  ])erfi>rmancc  of  such  a  task.  lie  was  a  lit- 
tle afraid  of  Mr.  Crawloy,  acknowledging  tacitly 
to  himself  that  the  man  had  a  power  of  ascend- 
ency with  which  he  would  hardly  be  able  to  copo 
successfully.  In  old  days  lie  had  once  been  re- 
buked by  Mr.  Crawley,  and  had  been  cowed  by 
the  rebuke ;  and  though  there  was  no  touch  of 
rancor  in  his  heart  on  this  account,  no  slightest 
remaining  venom — but  rather  increased  resj)ect 
and  friendship — still  he  was  unable  to  overcome 
the  remembrance  of  the  scene  in  wliich  the  per- 
petual curate  of  Ilogglestock  had  undoubtedly 
liad  tlic  mastery  of  him.  So,  when  two  dogs 
have  fought  and  one  has  conquered,  the  con- 
quered dog  will  always  show  an  unconscious 
submission  to  the  conqueror. 

He  hailed  a  boy  on  the  road  as  he  drew  near 
to  the  house,  knowing  that  he  would  find  no 
one  at  tlie  parsonage  to  hold  his  horse  for  him, 
and  was  thus  able  without  delay  to  walk  through 
the  garden  and  knock  at  the  door.  "Papa  was 
not  at  home,"  Jane  said.  "Papa  was  at  the 
school.  But  papa  could  certainly  be  summoned. 
She  herself  would  run  across  to  the  school  if 
]\Ir.  Robarts  would  come  in."  So  Mr.  Robarts 
entered,  and  found  Mrs.  Crawley  in  the  sitting- 
room.  Mr.  Crawley  would  be  in  directly,  she 
said.  And  then,  hurrying  on  to  the  subject 
with  confused  haste,  in  order  that  a  word  or 
two  miglit  be  spoken  before  her  husband  came 
back,  she  expressed  her  thanks  and  his  for  the 
good  things  which  had  been  sent  to  them  at 
Chiistmas-tide. 

"It's  old  Lady  Lufton's  doings,"  said  Mr. 
Rjbarts,  trying  to  laugh  the  matter  over. 

"I  knew  that  it  came  from  Framley,  Mr. 
Robarts,  and  I  know  how  good  you  all  are  there. 
I  have  not  written  to  thank  Lady  Lufton.  I 
thought  it  better  not  to  write.  Your  sister  will 
understand  why,  if  no  one  else  does.  But  you 
will  tell  tjiem  from  me,  I  am  sure,  that  it  was, 
as  tliey  intended,  a  comfort  to  us.  Your  sister 
knows  too  much  of  us  for  me  to  suppose  that 
our  great  poverty  can  be  secret  from  her.  And, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  do  not  now  much 
care  who  knows  it." 

"There  is  no  disgrace  in  not  being  rich," 
said  Mr.  Robarts. 

"  No ;  and  the  feeling  of  disgrace  which  does 
attach  itself  to  being  so  poor  as  we  are  is  dead- 
ened by  the  actual  suffering  which  such  poverty 
brings  with  it.  At  least  it  has  become  so  with 
me.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  am  very 
grateful  for  what  you  all  have  done  for  us  at 
Framley.  But  you  must  not  say  any  thing  to 
liim  about  that." 

"  Of  course  I  will  not,  Sirs.  Crawley." 

"His   spirit  is  higher  than  mine,  I  think, 


and  he  suffers  more  from  the  natural  disincli- 
nation which  we  all  have  to  receiving  alms.  Are 
you  going  to  speak  to  him  about  this  affair  of 
the — check,  Mr.  Robarts?" 

"I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  put  his  case  into 
some  lawyer's  hands." 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  he  would !" 

"And  will  ho  not?" 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  your  coming  to  ask 
him,  but — " 

"Has  he  so  strong  an  objection?" 

"  He  will  tell  you  that  he  has  no  money  to 
pay  a  lawyer." 

"  But  surely,  if  he  were  convinced  that  it 
was  absolutely  necessary  for  the  vindication  of 
his  innocence,  he  would  submit  to  charge  him- 
self with  an  expense  so  necessary,  not  only  for 
himself,  but  for  his  family  ?" 

"He  will  say  it  ought  not  to  be  necessary. 
You  know,  Mr.  Robarts,  that  in  some  respects 
he  is  not  like  other  men.  You  will  not  let  what 
I  say  of  him  set  you  against  him  ?" 

"Indeed  no." 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  make  the  attempt. 
Ho  will  be  here  directly,  and  when  he  comes  I 
will  leave  you  together." 

While  she  was  yet  speaking  his  stc])  was  heard 
along  the  gravel-path,  and  he  hurried  into  the 
room  with  quick  steps.  "  I  crave  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Robarts,"  he  said,  "  that  I  should  keep  you 
waiting."  Now  Mr.  Robarts  had  not  been  there 
ten  minutes,  and  any  such  asking  of  pardon 
was  hardly  necessary.  And,  even  in  his  own 
house,  Mr.  Crawley  affected  a  mock  humility, 
as  though,  either  through  his  own  debasement 
or  because  of  the  superior  station  of  the  othet 
clergyman,  he  were  not  entitled  to  put  himself 
on  an  equal  footing  with  his  visitor.  He  would 
not  have  shaken  hands  with  Mr.  Robarts — in- 
tending to  indicate  that  he  did  not  presume  to 
do  so  while  the  present  accusation  Avas  hanging 
over  him — had  not  the  action  been  forced  upon 
him.  And  then  there  was  something  of  a  pro- 
test in  his  manner,  as  though  remonstrating 
against  a  thing  that  was  unbecoming  to  him. 
Mr.  Robarts,  without  analyzing  it,  understood  it 
all,  and  knew  that  behind  the  humility  there 
was  a  crushing  pride — a  pride  which,  in  all 
probability,  would  rise  up  and  crush  him  before 
he  could  get  himself  out  of  the  room  again.  It 
was,  perhaps,  after  all,  a  question  whether  the 
man  was  not  served  rightly  by  the  extremities 
to  which  he  was  reduced.  There  was  something 
radically  wrong  within  him,  which  had  ]iut  him 
into  antagonism  with  all  the  world,  and  which 
produced  these  never-dying  grievances.  There 
were  many  clergymen  in  the  country  with  in- 
comes as  small  as  that  which  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  Mr.  Crawley,  but  they  managed  to  get  on 
without  displaying  their  sores  as  Mr.  Crawley 
displayed  his.  They  did  not  wear  their  old  rusty 
cloaks  with  all  that  ostentatious  bitterness  of 
])0verty  which  seemed  to  belong  to  that  gar- 
ment when  displayed  on  Mr.  Crawley's  shoul- 
ders. Such,  for  a  moment,  were  Mr.  Robarts's 
thoughts,  and  he  almost  repented  himself  of  hia 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


93 


present  mission.  But  then  he  thouglit  of  Mrs. 
Crawley,  and  remembering  that  lier  sufferings 
were  at  any  rate  undeserved,  determined  that  he 
would  persevere. 

JMrs.  Crawley  disappeared  almost  as  soon  as 
her  husband  appeared,  and  Mr.  Kobarts  found 
himself  standing  in  front  of  his  friend,  who  re- 
mained fixed  on  the  spot,  with  his  hands  folded 
over  each  other  and  his  neck  slightly  bent  for- 
ward, in  token  also  of  humility.  "I  regret," 
he  said,  "that  your  horse  should  be  left  there, 
exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather ; 
but—" 

"The  horse  won't  mind  it  a  bit,"  said  Mr. 
Eobarts.  "A  parson's  horse  is  like  a  butcher's, 
and  knows  that  he  mustn't  be  particular  about 
waiting  in  the  cold." 

"I  never  have  had  one  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley.  Now  Mr.  Robarts  had  had  more  horses 
than  one  before  now,  and  had  been  thought  by 
some  to  have  incurred  greater  expense  than  was 
befitting  in  his  stable  con)forts.  The  subject, 
therefore,  was  a  sore  one,  and  he  was  worried  a 
little.  "I  just  wanted  to  say  a  few  words  to 
you,  Crawley,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  am  not  oc- 
cuj)\ing  too  much  of  your  time — " 

"  Jly  time  is  altogether  at  your  disposal.  "Will 
you  be  seated  ?" 

Then  Mr.  Robarts  sat  down,  and,  swinging  his 
hat  between  his  legs,  bethought  himself  how  he 
should  begin  his  work.  "  We  had  the  arch- 
deacon over  at  Framley  the  other  day,"  he  said. 
"  Of  course  you  know  the  archdeacon  ?" 

"I  never  had  the  advantage  of  any  acquaint- 
ance with  Dr.  Grantly.  Of  course  I  know  him 
well  by  name,  and  also  personally — that  is,  by 
sight." 

"And  by  chai-acter?" 

"  Nay ;  I  can  hardly  say  so  much  as  that. 
But  I  am  aware  that  his  name  stands  high  with 
many  of  his  order." 

"Exactly  ;  that  is  what  I  mean.  You  know 
that  his  judgment  is  thought  more  of  in  clerical 
matters  than  that  of  any  other  clergyman  in  the 
county." 

"By  a  certain  party,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"  Well,  yes.  They  don't  think  much  of  hini, 
I  suppose,  at  the  palace.  But  that  won't  lower 
him  in  your  estimation." 

"I  by  no  means  wish  to  derogate  from  Dr. 
Grantly's  high  position  in  his  own  archdeaconry 
— to  which,  as  you  are  aware,  I  am  not  attach- 
ed— nor  to  criticise  his  conduct  in  any  respect. 
It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  do  so.  But 
I  can  not  accept  it  as  a  point  in  a  clergyman's 
favor  that  he  should  be  opposed  to  his  bishop." 

Now  this  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Robarts. 
After  all  that  he  had  heard  of  the  visit  paid  by 
Mr.  Crawley  to  the  palace — of  the  venom  dis- 
played by  Mrs.  Proudie  on  that  occasion,  and  of 
the  absolute  want  of  subordination  to  episcopal 
authority  which  'Mr.  Crawley  himself  was  sup- 
posed to  have  shown — Mr.  Robarts  did  feel  it 
hard  that  his  friend  the  archdeacon  should  be 
snubbed  in  this  way  because  he  was  deficient  in 
reverence  for  his  bishop!      "I  thought,  Craw- 


ley," he  said,  "that  you  yourself  were  inclined 
to  dispute  orders  coming  to  you  from  the  pal- 
ace. The  world  at  least  says  as  much  concern- 
ing you." 

"  What  the  world  says  of  me  I  have  learned 
to  disregard  very  mucli,  Mr.  Robarts.  But  I 
hope  that  I  shall  never  disobey  the  authority 
of  the  Ciiurch  when  properly  and  legally  exer- 
cised." 

"  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  you  never  will ; 
nor  I  either.  And  the  archdeacon,  who  knows, 
to  the  breadth  of  a  hair,  what  a  bishop  ought  to 
do  and  what  he  ought  not,  and  what  he  may  do 
and  what  he  may  not,  will,  I  should  say,  be  the 
last  man  in  England  to  sin  in  that  way." 

"Very  probably.  I  am  far  from  contradict- 
ing you  there.  Pray  understand,  Mr.  Robarts, 
that  I  bring  noaccusation  against  the  archdeacon. 
Why  should  I  ?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  discuss  him  at  all." 

' '  Nor  did  I,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"I  only  mentioned  his  name  because,  as  I 
said,  he  was  over  with  us  the  other  day  at 
Framley,  and  we  were  all  talking  about  your 
affair." 

"My  aff'air!"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  And  then 
came  a  frown  upon  his  lirow,  and  a  gleam  of 
fire  into  his  eyes,  which  cffectiuilly  banished  that 
look  of  extreme  humility  wiiich  he  had  assumed. 
"And  may  I  ask  why  the  archdeacon  was  dis- 
cussing— my  affair?" 

"  Simply  from  the  kindness  which  he  bears  to 
you." 

"I  am  grateful  for  the  archdeacon's  kindness, 
as  a  man  is  bound  to  be  for  any  kindness,  wheth- 
er dis])laycd  wisely  or  unwisely.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  my  affair,  as  you  call  it,  Mr.  Robarts, 
is  of  tliat  nature  that  they  who  wish  well  to  me 
will  better  further  their  wishes  by  silence  than 
by  any  discussion." 

"  Then  I  can  not  agree  with  you."  Mr.  Craw- 
ley shrugged  his  shoulders,  opened  his  hands  a 
little  and  then  closed  them,  and  bowed  his  head. 
lie  could  not  have  declared  more  clearly  by  any 
words  that  he  ditfered  altogether  from  BIr.  Ro- 
barts, and  that  as  tlie  subject  was  one  so  pecu- 
liarly his  own  he  had  a  right  to  expect  that  his 
opinion  should  be  allowed  to  prevail  against  that 
of  any  other  person.  "If  you  come  to  that, 
you  know,  how  is  any  body's  tongue  to  be 
stopped?" 

"ThatA-ain  tongues  can  not  be  stopped  I  am 
well  aware.  I  do  not  exjjcct  that  people's 
tongues  should  be  stopped.  I  am  not  saying 
what  men  will  do,  but  wiiat  good  wishes  should 
dictate." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you'll  hear  me  out  for  a  min- 
ute." Mr.  Crawley  again  bowed  his  head. 
"  Whether  we  were  wise  or  unwise,  we  were  dis- 
cussing this  affair." 

"Whether  I  stole  Mr.  Soames's  money  ?" 

"No;  nobody  supposed  for  a  moment  you 
had  stolen  it." 

"I  can  not  understand  how  they  should  suji- 
pose  any  thing  else,  knowing,  as  they  do,  that 
the  mngistrates  have  committed  me  for  the  theft, 


94 


THE  LAST  CKRONICLE  OF  BxiESET. 


This  took  place  at  Framley,  yon  say,  and  prob- 
ably in  Lord  Lufton's  presence." 

"  Exactly." 

"And  Lord  Lufton  was  chairman  at  the  sit- 
ting of  the  magistrates  at  which  I  was  commit- 
ted. How  can  it  be  that  he  should  think  other- 
wise ?" 

"  I  am  sure  he  has  not  an  idea  that  you  were 
guilty.  Nor  yet  has  Dr.  Thorne,  who  was  also 
one  of  the  magistrates.  I  don't  suj)posc  one  of 
them  then  thought  so." 

'•Then  their  action,  to  say  tiie  least  of  it, 
was  very  strange." 

"It  was  all  because  you  h.id  nobody  to  man- 
age it  for  you.  I  thoroughly  believe  that  if 
you  liad  placed  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  a 
good  lawyer  you  would  never  have  heard  a 
word  more  about  it.  That  seems  to  be  the 
opinion  of  every  body  I  speak  to  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

"Then  in  this  country  a  man  is  to  be  pun- 
ished or  not,  according  to  his  ability  to  fee  a 
lawyer!" 

"  I  am  not  talking  about  punishment." 

"  And  jiresuming  an  innocent  man  to  have 
the  ability  and  not  the  will  to  do  so,  he  is  to  be 
]iunished,  to  be  ruined  root  and  branch,  self 
and  family,  character  and  pocket,  simply  be- 
cause, knowing  his  own  innocence,  he  does  not 
choose  to  depend  on  the  mercenary  skill  of  a 
man  whose  trade  he  abhors  for  the  establish-  ^ 
ment  of  that  wliich  sliould  be  clear  as  the  sun 
at  noonday !  You  say  I  am  innocent,  and  yet 
you  tell  me  I  am  to  be  condemned  as  a  guilty 
man,  have  my  gown  taken  from  me,  be  torn 
from  my  wife  and  cliildren,  be  disgraced  bcfoie 
the  eyes  of  all  men,  and  be  made  a  by-wovd  and 
a  thing  horrible  to  be  mentioned,  because  I  will 
not  fee  an  attorney  to  fee  another  man  to  come 
and  lie  on  my  behalf,  to  browbeat  witnesses,  to 
make  false  appeals,  and  perhaps  shed  false  tears 
in  defending  me.  You  have  come  to  me  ask- 
ing me  to  do  this,  if  I  understand  you,  telling 
me  that  the  archdeacon  would  so  advise  me." 

"That  is  my  object."  ]Mr.  Crawley,  as  he 
had  spoken,  had  in  his  vehemence  risen  from 
his  seat,  and  Mr.  Robarts  was  also  standing.        i 

"  Then  tell  the  archdeacon,"  said  Mr.  Craw-  | 
ley,  "that  I  will  have  none  of  his  advice.  I 
will  have  no  one  there  paid  by  me  to  obstruct 
the  course  of  justice  or  to  hoodwink  a  jury.  I 
have  been  in  courts  of  law,  and  know  what  is 
the  work  for  which  these  gentlemen  are  hired. 
I  will  have  none  of  it,  and  I  will  thank  yon  to 
tell  the  archdeacon  so,  witli  my  respectful  ac- 
knowledgments of  his  consideration  and  conde- 
scension. I  say  nothing  as  to  my  own  inno- 
cence or  my  own  guilt.  But  I  do  say  that  if  I 
am  dragged  before  that  tribunal,  an  innocent 
man,  and  am  falsely  declared  to  be  guilty  be- 
cause I  lack  money  to  bribe  a  lawyer  to  speak 
for  me,  then  the  laws  of  this  country  deserve 
but  little  of  that  reverence  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  pay  to  them.     And  if  I  be  guilty — " 

"  Noliody  supposes  you  to  be  guilty." 

"And  if  I  be  guilty,"  continued  Mr.  Craw-  [ 


ley,  altogether  ignoring  the  interruption,  except 
by  the  rej)Ctition  of  his  words  and  a  slight  rais- 
ing of  his  voice,  "I  will  not  add  to  my  guilt  by 
hiring  any  ope  to  prove  a  falsehood  or  to  dis- 
prove a  truth." 

"  I'm  sorry  that  you  should  say  so,  !Mr.  Craw- 
ley." 

"I  speak  according  to  what  light  I  have,  Mr. 
Robarts ;  and  if  I  have  been  over-warm  with 
you — and  I  am  conscious  that  I  have  been  in 
fault  in  that  direction — I  must  pray  you  to  re- 
member that  I  am  somewhat  hardly  tried.  IVfy 
sorrows  and  troubles  are  so  great  that  they  rise 
against  me  and  disturb  me,  and  drive  me  on — 
whither  I  would  not  be  driven." 

"But,  my  friend,  is  not  that  just  the  reason 
why  you  should  trust  in  this  matter  to  some 
one  who  can  be  more  calm  than  yourself?" 

"  I  can  not  trust  to  any  one  in  a  matter  of 
conscience.  To  do  as  you  would  have  me  is  to 
me  wrong.  Shall  I  do  wrong  because  I  am 
unhappy?" 

"You  should  cease  to  think  it  wrong  when 
so  advised  by  persons  you  can  trust." 

"  I  can  trust  no  one  with  my  own  conscience 
— not  even  the  archdeacon,  great  as  he  is." 

"The  archdeacon  has  meant  only  well   to 

TOU." 

"  I  will  presume  so.  I  will  believe  so.  I 
do  think  so.  Tell  the  archdeacon  from  me 
that  I  humbly  tliank  him  ;  that  in  a  matter  of 
church  question  I  might  probably  submit  mj' 
judgment  to  his,  even  though  he  might  have 
no  authority  over  me,  knowing  as  I  do  that  in 
such  matters  his  experience  has  been  great. 
Tell  him  also,  that  though  I  would  fain  that 
tliis  unfortunate  atlair  might  burden  the  tongue 
of  none  among  my  neighbors — at  least  till  I 
shall  have  stood  before  the  judge  to  receive  the 
verdict  of  the  jury,  and,  if  needful,  his  lordship's 
sentence — still  I  am  convinced  that  in  what  he 
has  spoken,  as  also  in  what  he  has  done,  he  has 
not  yielded  to  the  idleness  of  gossip,  but  has  ex- 
ercised his  judgment  with  intended  kindness." 

"  He  has  certainly  intended  to  do  you  a  serv- 
ice ;  and  as  for  its  not  being  talked  about,  that 
is  out  of  the  question." 

"And  for  yourself,  ^Mr.  Robarts,  whom  I  have 
ever  regarded  as  a  friend  since  circumstances 
brought  me  into  your  neighborhood — for  you, 
whose  sister  I  love  tenderly  in  memory  of  past 
kindness,  though  now  she  is  removed  so  far 
above  my  sphere  as  to  make  it  unfit  that  I 
should  call  her  my  friend — " 

"  She  does  not  think  so  at  all." 

"For  yourself,  as  I  was  saying,  pray  believe 
me  that  thougli  from  the  roughness  of  my  man- 
her,  being  now  unused  to  social  intercourse,  I 
seem  to  be  ungracious  and  forbidding,  I  am 
grateful  and  mindful,  and  that  in  the  tablets  of 
my  heart  I  have  written  you  down  as  one  in 
whom  I  could  trust — were  it  given  to  me  to 
trust  in  men  and  women."  Then  he  turned 
round  with  his  face  to  the  wall  and  his  back  to 
his  visitor,  and  so  remained  till  ^Ir.  Robarts 
had  left  him.      "At  any  rate  I  wish  you  well 


THE  LAST  CHEONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


95 


through  your  trouble,"  said  Robarts ;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  found  that  liis  own  words  were  nearly 
choked  by  a  sob  tliat  was  rising  in  his  throat. 

lie  went  away  without  another  word,  and  got 
out  to  his  gig  without  seeing  Mrs.  Crawley. 
During  one  period  of  the  interview  he  had  been 
very  angry  with  the  man — so  angry  as  to  make 
him  almost  declare  to  himself  that  he  would 
take  no  more  trouble  on  his  behalf.  Then  he 
had  been  brought  to  acknowledge  that  Mr. 
Walker  was  right,  and  that  Crawley  was  cer- 
tainly mad.  Ho  was  so  mad,  so  far  removed 
from  the  dominion  of  sound  sense,  that  no  jury 
could  say  that  he  was  guilty,  and  that  he  ought 
to  be  punished  for  his  guilt.  And,  as  he  so  re- 
solved, he  could  not  but  ask  himself  the  ques- 
tion, whether  the  charge  of  the  parish  ouglit  to 
be  left  in  the  hands  of  such  a  man  ?  But  at 
last,  just  before  he  went,  these  feelings  and 
these  convictions  gave  way  to  pity,  and  he  re- 
membered simjily  the  troubles  which  seemed 
to  have  been  heaped  on  the  head  of  this  poor 
victim  to  misfortune.  As  he  drove  home  he  re- 
solved that  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do 
but  to  write  to  the  dean.  It  was  known  to  all 
who  knew  them  both  that  the  dean  and  Mr. 
Crawley  had  lived  together  on  the  closest  inti- 
macy at  college,  and  that  that  friendship  had 
been  maintained  through  life — though,  from 
the  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Crawley's  character,  the 
two  had  not  been  much  together  of  late  years. 
Seeing  how  things  were  going  now,  and  hearing 
how  pitiful  was  the  plight  in  which  Mr.  Craw- 
ley was  placed,  the  dean  would  no  doubt  feel  it 
to  be  his  duty  to  hasten  his  return  to  England. 
He  was  believed  to  be  at  this  moment  in  Jerusa- 
lem, and  it  would  be  long  before  a  letter  could 
reach  him  ;  but  there  still  wanted  three  months 
to  the  assizes,  and  his  return  might  be  probably 
effected  before  the  end  of  Pebruary. 

"  I  never  was  so  distressed  in  my  life,"  Mark 
Robarts  said  to  his  wife. 

•'  And  you  think  you  have  done  no  good  ?" 

"  Only  this,  that  I  have  convinced  myself 
that  the  poor  man  is  not  responsible  for  what  he 
does,  and  that  for  her  sake  as  well  as  for  his 
own  some  person  should  be  enabled  to  interfere 
for  his  protection."  Then  he»  told  Mrs.  Ro- 
barts what  Mr.  Walker  had  said  ;  also  the  mes- 
sage which  Mr.  Crawley  had  sent  to  the  arch- 
deacon. But  they  both  agreed  that  that  mes- 
sage need  not  be  sent  on  any  further. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MAJOR   GRAKTLY   AT    HOME. 

Mks.  Thorne  had  spoken  very  plainly  in  the 
advice  which  she  had  given  to  Major  Grantly; 
"  If  I  were  you,  I'd  be  at  AUington  before  twelve 
o'clock  to-morrow."  That  had  been  Mrs. 
Thoi-ne"s  advice ;  and  though  Major  Grantly 
had  no  idea  of  making  the  journey  so  rapidly  as 
the  lady  had  proposed,  still  he  thought  that  he 
would  make  it  before  lon^,  and  follow  the  ad- 


vice in  spirit  if  not  to  the  letter.  Mrs.  Thorne 
had  asked  him  if  it  was  fair  that  the  girl  should 
bo  punished  because  of  the  father's  fault ;  and 
the  idea  had  been  sweet  to  him  that  the  infliction 
or  non-infliction  of  such  punishment  should  be 
in  his  hands.  "You  go  and  ask  her,"  Mrs. 
Thorne  had  said.  Well ;  he  would  go  and  ask 
her.  If  it  should  turn  out  at  last  that  he  had 
married  the  daughter  of  a  thief,  and  that  he  was 
disinherited  for  doing  so— an  arrangement  of 
circumstances  which  he  had  to  teach  himself  to 
regard  as  very  probable— he  would  not  love 
Grace  the  less  on  that  account,  or  allow  him- 
self for  one  moment  to  repent  what  he  had 
done.  As  he  thought  of  all  this  he  became 
somewhat  in  love  with  a  small  income,  and  im- 
agined to  himself  what  honors  would  be  done  to 
him  by  the  Mrs.  Thornes  of  the  county  when 
they  should  come  to  know  in  what  way  he  had 
sacrificed  himself  to  his  love.  Yes;  they  would 
go  and  live  at  Pau.  He  thought  Pan  would  do. 
lie  would  have  enough  of  income  for  that ;  and 
Edith  would  get  lessons  cheaply,  and  would 
learn  to  talk  Prench  fluently.  He  certainly 
would  do  it.  He  would  go  down  to  AUington, 
and  ask  Grace  to  be  his  Avife ;  and  bid  her  un- 
derstand that  if  she  loved  him  she  could  not  be 
justified  in  refusing  him  by  the  circumstances 
of  her  father's  positiori. 

Blithe  must  go  to  Plumstead  before  he  could 
go  to  AUington.  He  was  engaged  to  spend  his 
Christmas  there,  and  must  go  now  at  once. 
There  was  not  time  for  the  journey  to  Ailing- 
ton  before  he  was  due  at  Plumstead.  And, 
moreover,  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
resolve  that  he  would  tell  his  father  what  he 
was  going  to  do — "  It  would  seem  as  though  I 
were  asking  his  leave!"  he  said  to  himself — he 
tliought  that  he  would  make  a  clean  breast  of  it 
to  his  mother.  It  made  him  sad  to  think  that 
he  should  cut  the  rope  which  fastened  his  own 
boat  among  the  other  boats  in  the  home  harbor 
at  Plumstead,  and  that  he  should  go  out  all 
alone  into  strange  waters — turned  adrift  alto- 
gether, as  it  were,  from  the  Grantly  fleet.  If  he 
could  only  get  the  promise  of  his  mother's  sym- 
pathy for  Grace,  it  would  be  something.  He 
understood — no  one  better  than  he — the  tenden- 
cy of  all  his  family  to  an  uprising  in  the  world, 
which  tendency  was  almost  as  strong  in  his  mo- 
ther as  in  his  father.  And  he  had  been  by 
no  means  without  a  similar  ambition  himself, 
though  with  him  the  ambition  had  been  only 
fitful,  not  enduring.  He  had  a  brother,  a  cler- 
gyman, a  busy,  stirring,  eloquent  London 
preacher,  who  got  churches  built,  and  was  heard 
of  far  and  wide  as  a  rising  man,  who  had  mar- 
ried a  certain  Lady  Anne,  the  daughter  of  an 
earl,  and  who  was  already  mentioned  as  a  can- 
didate for  high  places.  How  his  sister  was  the 
wife  of  a  marquis,  and  a  leader  in  the  fashion- 
able world,  the  reader  already  knows.  The 
archdeacon  himself  was  a  rich  man,  so  power- 
ful that  he  could  atford  to  look  down  upon  a 
bishop;  and  INIrs.  Grantly,  thougli  there  was 
left  about  her  something  of  an  old  softness  of 


96 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 


nature,  a  touch  of  the  former  life  vliich  had 
been  Iiers  before  the  stream  of  her  days  had  run 
gold,  yet  she,  too,  had  taken  kindly  to  wealth 
and  liigh  standing,  and  was  by  no  means  one 
of  those  who  construe  literally  tliat  passage  of 
Scripture  which  tells  us  of  the  camel  and  the 
needle's  eye.  Our  Henry  Grantly,  our  major, 
knew  himself  to  be  his  mother's  favorite  child — 
knew  himself  to  have  become  so  since  some- 
thing of  coolness  had  grown  up  between  her  and 
her  august  daughter.  The  augustness  of  the 
daughter  had  done  mucli  to  reproduce  the  old 
freshness  of  which  I  have  spoken  in  the  mother's 
lieart,  and  had  sj)ecia]ly  endeared  to  her  the 
son  who,  of  all  her  children,  was  the  least  sub- 
ject to  the  family  failing.  The  clergyman, 
Cliarles  Grantly — he  who  had  married  the  Lady 
Anne — was  his  father's  darling  in  these  days. 
The  old  archdeacon  would  go  up  to  London 
and  be  (|uite  hapjiy  in  his  son's  house.  He  met 
there  the  men  wliom  ho  loved  to  meet,  and 
heard  the  talk  which  he  loved  to  hear.  It  was 
very  fine,  having  the  Marquis  of  Ilartletop  for 
his  son-in-law,  but  he  had  never  cared  to  bo 
much  at  Lady  Hartletop's  house.  Indeed,  the 
archdeacon  cared  to  be  in  no  house  in  which 
tliosc  around  him  were  supposed  to  be  bigger 
than  himself.  Such  was  the  little  family  fleet 
from  out  of  which  Henry  Grantly  was  now  pro- 
posing to  sail  alone  with  his  little  boat — taking 
Grace  Crawley  with  him  at  the  helm.  "  My 
father  is  a  just  man  at  the  bottom,"  he  said  to 
liimself,  "  and  though  he  may  not  forgive  me, 
he  will  not  punish  Edith." 

But  there  was  still  left  one  of  tlie  family — not 
a  Grantly,  indeed,  but  one  so  nearly  allied  to 
tliem  as  to  have  his  boat  moored  in  the  same 
harbor — who,  as  the  major  well  knew,  would 
thoroughly  sympathize  with  him.  This  was 
old  Mr.  Harding,  his  mother's  father— the  fa- 
ther of  his  mother  and  of  his  aunt  Mrs.  Arabin 
— whose  home  was  now  at  the  deanery.  He 
was  also  to  be  at  Plumstead  during  this  Christ- 
mas, and  he  at  any  rate  would  give  a  ready  as- 
sent to  such  a  marriage  as  that  which  the  major 
was  ])roposing  for  himself.  But  then  poor  old 
Mr.  Harding  had  been  thoroughly  deficient  in 
that  ambition  which  had  served  to  aggrandize 
the  family  into  which  his  daughter  had  married. 
He  was  a  poor  old  man  who,  in  spite  of  good 
friends — for  the  late  bishop  of  the  diocese  had 
been  his  dearest  friend— had  never  risen  liigh 
in  Iiis  profession,  and  had  fallen  even  from  the 
moderate  altitude  which  he  had  attained.  But 
he  was  a  man  whom  all  loved  who  knew  him ; 
and  it  was  much  to  the  credit  of  liis  son-in-law, 
the  arclideacon,  that,  with  all  his  tendencies  to 
love  rising  suns,  he  had  ever  been  true  to  Mr. 
Harding. 

Major  Grantly  took  his  daughter  with  him, 
and  on  his  arrival  at  Plumstead  she  of  course 
was  the  first  object  of  attention.  Mrs.  Grantly 
dechired  that  she  had  grown  immensely.  The 
archdeacon  complimented  her  red  cheeks,  and 
said  that  Cosby  Lodge  was  as  healthy  a  jilace  as 
any  in  the  county,  while  Mr.  Harding,  Edith's 


great-grandfather,  drew  slowly  from  his  pocket 
sundry  treasures  with  which  he  had  come  pre- 
jiared  for  the  deliglit  of  the  little  girl.  Charles 
Grantly  and  Lady  Anne  had  no  children,  and 
the  heir  of  all  the  Ilartletops  was  too  august  to 
have  been  trusted  to  the  embraces  of  her  mo- 
ther's grandfather.  Edith,  therefore,  was  all 
that  he  had  in  that  generation,  and  of  Edith  he 
was  ])repared  to  be  as  indulgent  as  he  had  been, 
in  their  time,  of  his  grandchildren  the  Grantlys, 
and  still  was  of  his  grandchildren  the  Arabins, 
and  had  been  before  that  of  his  own  daughters. 
"She's  more  like  Eleanor  than  any  one  else," 
said  the  old  man,  in  a  plaintive  tone.  Now 
Eleanor  was  Mrs.  Arabin,  the  dean's  wife,  and 
was  at  this  time — if  I  were  to  say  over  forty  I  do 
not  think  I  should  be  uncharitable.  No  one 
else  saw  the  special  likeness,  but  no  one  else  re- 
membered, as  Mr.  Harding  did,  wliat  Eleanor 
had  been  when  she  was  three  years  old. 

"Aunt  Nelly  is  in  Erance,"  said  the  child. 

"Yes,  my  darling,  aunt  Nelly  is  in  Erance, 
and  I  wish  she  were  at  home.  Aunt  Nelly  has 
been  away  a  long  time." 

"I  suppose  she'll  stay  till  the  dean  picks  her 
up  on  his  way  home  ?''  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"So  she  says  in  her  letters.  I  heard  from 
her  yesterday,  and  I  brought  the  letter,  as  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  see  it."  Mrs.  Grantly 
took  the  letter  and  read  it,  while  her  father  still 
played  with  the  child.  The  archdeacon  and  the 
major  were  standing  together  on  the  rug  discuss- 
ing the  shooting  at  Cbaldicotes,  as  to  which  the 
archdeacon  had  a  strong  ojiinion.  "I'm  quite 
sure  that  a  man  with  a  place  like  that  docs  more 
good  by  preserving  than  by  leaving  it  alone. 
The  better  head  of  game  he  has  the  richer  the 
county  will  be  generally.  It  is  just  the  same 
with  jiheasants  as  it  is  with  sheep  and  bullocks. 
A  pheasant  doesn't  cost  more  than  he's  worth 
any  more  than  a  barn-door  fowl.  Besides,  a 
man  who  preserves  is  always  respected  by  the 
poachers,  and  the  man  who  doesn't  is  not." 

"There's  something  in  that,  Sir,  certainly," 
said  the  major. 

"More  than  you  think  for,  perhaps.  Look 
at  poor  Sowerby,  who  went  on  there  for  years 
witliout  a  shilling.  How  he  was  respected,  be- 
cause he  lived  as  the  ])coi)le  around  him  expect- 
ed a  gentleman  to  live.  Tiiornc  will  have  a 
bad  time  of  it  if  he  tries  to  change  tilings." 

"Only  think,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grantly, 
"  when  Eleanor  wrote  she  had  not  heard  of 
that  affair  of  poor  Mr.  Crawley's." 

"  Does  she  say  any  thing  about  him  ?"  asked 
the  major. 

"  I'll  read  what  she  says.  '  I  see  in  Calirj- 
nani  that  a  clergyman  in  Barsetshirc  has  l)een 
committed  for  theft.  Pray  tell  me  who  it  is. 
Not  the  bishop,  I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  the  di- 
ocese.' " 

"  I  wish  it  were,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"For  shame,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife. 

"No  shame  at  all.  If  we  are  to  have  a  thief 
•among  us,  I'd  sooner  find  him  in  a  bad  man 
than  a  good  one.     Besides,  we  should  have  a 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


97 


"she's  mo:if.  liaK  ei.k.vno--;  than  any  one  else." 


chanpc  at  the  palace,  ■\vliicli  would  be  a  great 
thing." 

"  But  is  it  not  odd  that  Eleanor  should  have 
heard  nothing  of  it?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"It's  odd  that  you  should  not  have  mention- 
ed it  youi'self." 

"I  did  not,  certainly;  nor  you,  papa,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

Mr.  Harding  acknowledged  that  he  had  not 
spoken  of  it,  and  tlien  they  calculated  that  per- 
haps she  might  not  have  received  any  letter  from 
her  husband  written  since  the  news  had  reached 
him.  "  Besides,  why  should  he  have  mentioned 
U?"  said  the  major.      "He  only  knows  as  yet 


of  the  inquiry  about  the  check,  and  can  have 
heard  nothing  of  what  was  done  by  the  magis- 
trates." 

"Still  it  seems  so  odd  that  Eleanor  should 
not  have  known  of  it,  seeing  that  we  have  been 
talking  of  nothing  else  for  the  last  week,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly. 

For  two  days  the  major  said  not  a  word  of 
Grace  Crawley  to  any  one.  Nothing  could  be 
more  courteous  and  complaisant  than  was  his 
father's  conduct  to  him.  Any  thing  that  he 
wanted  for  Edith  was  to  be  done.  For  himself 
there  was  no  trouble  which  would  not  be  taken. 
His  hunting,  and  his  shooting,  and  his  fishing 


98 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


seemed  to  have  become  matters  of  pnramonnt 
consideration  to  his  fatlicr.  And  then  the  areli- 
deacon  became  very  confidential  about  money- 
matters — not  offering  any  thing  to  his  son,  whicli, 
ns  he  well  knew,  would  have  been  seen  through 
as  paljjable  bribery  and  corruption — but  telling 
him  of  tliis  little  scheme  and  of  that,  of  one  in- 
vestment and  of  another — how  he  contemi)lated 
buying  a  small  property  here,  and  sjtending  a 
few  thousands  on  building  there.  "Of  course 
it  is  all  for  you  and  your  brother,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, with  that  benevolent  sadness  which  is 
used  habitually  by  fiitliers  on  such  occasions; 
"and  I  like  you  to  know  what  it  is  tlnit  I  am 
doing.  I  told  Charles  about  the  London  prop- 
erty the  last  time  I  was  up,"  said  the  archdea- 
con, "and  there  shall  be  no  difference  between 
him  and  you,  if  all  goes  well."  This  was  very 
good-natured  on  the  archdeacon's  l)art,  and  was 
not  strictly  necessary,  as  Charles  was  the  eldest 
son ;  but  tlie  major  understood  it  perfectly. 
"There  shall  be  an  elysium  opened  to  you,  if 
only  you  will  not  do  that  terrible  thing  of  which 
you  spoke  when  last  here."  The  archdeacon 
uttered  no  such  words  as  these,  and  did  not  even 
allude  to  Gi'ace  Crawley ;  but  the  words  were 
as  good  as  spoken,  and  had  they  been  spoken 
ever  so  plainly  the  major  could  not  have  under- 
stood them  more  clearly.  He  was  quite  awake 
to  the  loveliness  of  the  elysium  o])ened  before 
liim.  He  had  had  his  moment  of  anxiety 
vhether  his  father  would  or  would  not  make 
an  elder  son  of  his  brother  Charles.  The  whole 
thing  was  now  put  before  him  plainly.  Give  up 
Grace  Crawley,  and  you  shall  share  alike  with 
your  brother.  Disgrace  }'ourself  by  marrying 
her,  and  your  brother  shall  have  every  thing. 
There  was  the  choice,  and  it  was  still  open  to 
him  to  take  which  side  he  pleased.  "Were  he 
never  to  go  near  Grace  Crawley  again  no  one 
would  blame  him,  unless  it  were  ^liss  Pretty  man 
or  Mrs.  Thorne.  "Fill  your  glass,  Henry," 
said  the  archdeacon.  ' '  You'd  better,  I  tell  you, 
for  there  is  no  more  of  it  left. "  Then  the  major 
filled  his  glass  and  sipped  the  wine,  and  swore 
to  himself  that  he  would  go  down  to  Allington 
at  once.  What !  Did  his  father  think  to  bribe 
him  by  giving  him  '20  port?  He  would  cer- 
tainly go  down  to  Allington,  and  he  would  tell 
his  mother  to-morrow  morning,  or  certainly  on 
the  next  day,  what  he  was  going  to  do.  "Pity 
it  should  be  all  gone,  isn't  it,  Sir?"  said  the 
archdeacon  to  his  father-in-law.  "  It  has  lasted 
my  time,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  "and  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  it !  Dear,  dear !  how  well  I 
remember  your  father  giving  the  order  for  it ! 
There  were  two  pipes,  and  somebody  said  it  was 
a  heady  wine.  *  If  the  prebendaries  and  reetoi-s 
can't  drink  it, '  said  your  father, '  tlic  curates  will.' " 

"Curates,  indeed!"  said  the  archdeacon. 
"It's  too  good  for  a  bishop,  unless  one  of  the 
riglit  sort." 

"Your  father  used  to  say  those  things,  but 
with  him  the  poorer  the  guest  the  better  the 
cheer.  When  he  had  a  few  clergymen  round 
him  how  he  loved  to  make  them  happy  I" 


"Never  talked  shop  to  them — did  ho?"  said 
the  archdeacon. 

"Not  after  dinner,  at  any  rate.  Goodness 
gracious,  when  one  thinks  of  it !  Do  you  re- 
member how  we  used  to  play  cards?" 

"Every  night  regularly — threepenny  points, 
and  sixpence  on  the  rubber,"  said  the  archdea- 
con. 

"Dear,  dear!  How  things  are  changed! 
And  I  remember  when  the  clergymen  did  more 
of  the  dancing  in  Barchester  tlian  all  the  other 
young  men  in  the  city  put  together." 

"  And  a  good  set  they  were — gentlemen  every 
one  of  them.  It's  well  that  some  of  them  don't 
dance  now — that  is,  for  the  girls'  sake." 

"I  sometimes  sit  and  wgndcr,"  said  Mr.' 
Harding,  "whether  your  father's  spirit  ever 
comes  back  to  the  old  house  and  sees  the  changes 
— and  if  so  whether  he  a]i])roves  them." 

"Approves  them!"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Well — yes.  I  think  he  would  upon  the 
whole.  I'm  sure  of  this :  he  would  not  disap- 
prove,  because  the  new  ways  are  changed  from 
liis  ways.  He  never  thought  himself  infallit)le. 
And  do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  isn't  all  for  the  best.  I  sometimes  think  that 
some  of  us  were  very  idle  when  we  were  young. 
I  was,  I  know." 

"I  worked  hard  enougli,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  you.  But  most  of  ns  took  it  very 
easily.  De.ir,  dear!  When  I  think  of  it,  and 
see  how  hard  they  work  now,  and  remember 
what  pleasant  times  we  used  to  have — I  don't 
feel  sometimes  quite  sure." 

"I  believe  the  work  was  done  a  great  deal 
better  than  it  is  now,"  said  the  archdeacon. 
"  There  wasn't  so  much  fuss,  but  there  was  more 
reality.  And  men  were  men,  and  clergymen 
were  gentlemen." 

"Yes — they  were  gentlemen." 

"  Such  a  creature  as  that  old  woman  at  the 
palace  couldn't  have  held  his  head  up  among 
us.  That's  what  has  come  from  Reform.  A 
reformed  House  of  Commons  makes  Lord  Brock 
Prime  Minister,  and  then  your  Prime  Minister 
makes  Dr.  Proudio  a  bishop !  Well — it  will 
last  my  time,  I  suppose." 

"It  has  lasted  mine — like  the  wine,"  said  Mr. 
Harding. 

"There's  one  glass  more,  and  you  shall  have 
it.  Sir."  Tlien  Mr.  Harding  drank  the  last 
glass  of  the  1820  port,  and  they  Avent  into  the 
drawing-i'oom.  • 

On  the  next  morning  after  breakfast  the  ma- 
jor went  out  for  a  walk  by  himself.  His  father 
had  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  go  over  to 
shoot  at  Framley,  and  had  offered  him  the  use 
of  every  thing  tiie  archdeaconry  possessed  in  the 
way  of  horses,  dogs,  guns,  and  carriages.  But 
the  major  would  have  none  of  these  things.  He 
would  go  out  and  walk  by  himself.  "  He's  not 
thinking  of  her;  is  he?"  said  the  archdeacon 
to  his  wife,  in  a  whisper.  "I  don't  know.  I 
think  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "It  will  be 
so  much  the  better  for  Charles  if  he  does,"  said 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


99 


thtj  nrchdoacon,  grimly ;  and  the  look  of  his  f;icc 
ns  he  sjjoke  was  by  no  means  pleasant.  "  You 
viil  do  nothing  unjust,  arclideacon,"  said  his 
•wife.  "I  will  do  as  I  like  witli  my  own,"  said 
he.  And  then  he  also  went  out  and  took  a  walk 
by  himself. 

Tiiat  evening  after  dinner  there  was  no  1820 
port,  and  no  recollections  of  old  days.  They 
were  rather  dull,  the  three  of  them,  as  they  sat 
together — and  dullness  is  always  more  unen- 
durable than  sadness.  Old  Mr.  Harding  went 
to  sleep,  and  the  archdeacon  was  cross. 
"Henry,"  he  said,  "you  haven't  a  word  to 
throw  to  a  dog."  "I've  got  rather  a  headache 
tills  evening.  Sir,"  said  the  major.  The  arch- 
deacon drank  two  glasses  of  wine,  one  after  an- 
other, quickly.  Tlien  he  woke  his  father-in-law 
gently,  and  went  ot^'.  "Is  there  any  thing  the 
matter  ?"  asked  the  old  man.  "  Nothing  partic- 
ular. My  fiither  seems  to  be  a  little  cross." 
"Ah!  I've  been  to  sleep  and  I  oughtn't.  It's 
my  fault.  We'll  go  in  and  smootli  iiim  down." 
But  t!ic  arclideacon  wouldn't  be  smoothed  down 
on  tliat  occasion.  lie  would  let  his  son  see  the 
dirt'eronce  between  a  fatlier  pleased  and  a  father 
displeased — or  rather  between  a  father  pleasant 
and  a  father  unpleasant.  "  He  hasn't  said  any 
thing  to  you,  has  he  ?"'  said  the  archdeacon  that 
night  to  his  wife.  "Not  a  word — as  yet."  "If 
he  does  it  without  the  conrngc  to  tell  us,  I  shall 
think  him  a  cur,"  said  the  iirL-hdeacon.  "But 
he  did  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  standing  up 
for  her  favorite  son;  "and,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  he  has  courage  enough  for  any  thing.  If 
1  he  docs  it,  I  shall  always  say  that  he  has  been 
driven  to  it  by  your  threats." 
I  "That's  sheer  nonsense,"  said  the  arch- 
ie deacon. 

I  "It's  not  nonsense  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 
i  "Then  I  suppose  I  was  to  hold  my  tongue 
and  say  nothing?"  said  the  archdeacon  ;  and  as 
I  he  spoke  he  banged  the  door  between  his  dress- 
Jing-room  and  Mrs.  Grantly's  bedroom. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  new  year  Major  Grant- 

|ly  spoke  his  mind  to  his  mother.     Thearclidea- 

;  con  had  gone  into  Barchester,  having  in  vain 

)  attempted  to  induce  his  son  to  go  with  him. 

iMr.  Harding  was  in  the  library  reading  a  little, 

and  sleeping  a  little,  and  dreaming  of  old  days 

and  old  friends,  and  perhaps,  sometimes,  of  the 

old  wine.     Mrs.  Grantly  was  alone  in  a  small 

sitting-room  which  she  frequented  up  stairs,  when 

suddenly  her  son  entered  the  room.     "  Motlicr," 

he  said,  "I  think  it  better  to  tell  you  that  I  am 

going  to  Allington." 

"To  Allington,  Henry?"  She  knew  very 
well  who  was  at  Allington,  and  what  must  be 
the  business  which  would  take  him  there. 

"Yes,  mother.  Miss  Crawley  is  there,  and 
there  are  circumstances  which  make  it  incum- 
bent on  me  to  see  her  without  delay." 
"  What  circumstances,  Henry  ?" 
"  As  I  intend  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife,  I 
think  it  best  to  do  so  now.  I  owe  it  to  her  and 
t((||nyself  that  she  should  not  think  that  I  am 
deterred  by  her  father's  position." 


"But  would  it  not  bo  reasonable  that  you 
should  be  deterred  by  her  father's  position?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  I  think  it  would  be  dis- 
honest as  well  as  ungenerous.  I  can  not  bring 
myself  to  brook  such  delay.  Of  course  I  ain 
alive  to  the  misfortune  which  has  fallen  U)i0u 
her— upon  her  and  me,  too,  should  she  ever  be- 
come my  wife.  But  it  is  one  of  those  burdens 
which  a  man  should  have  shoulders  broad  enoiigii 
to  bear." 

"  Quite  so,  if  she  were  your  wife,  or  even  if 
you  were  engaged  to  her.  Then  honor  would 
require  it  of  you,  as  well  as  affection.  As  it  is, 
your  honor  does  not  reqtiire  it,  and  I  think  a  ou 
should  hesitate,  for  all  our  sakes,  and  especially 
for  Edith's." 

"  It  will  do  Edith  no  harm  ;  and,  mother,  if 
you  alone  were  concerned,  I  think  you  would 
feel  that  it  would  not  hurt  you." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  Henry." 

"As  for  my  father,  the  very  threats  which 
he  has  used  make  me  conscious  that  I  have 
only  to  measure  the  price.  He  has  told  me  that 
he  will  stop  my  allowance." 

"But  that  may  not  be  the  worst.  Think 
how  you  are  situated.  You  are  the  younger 
son  of  a  man  who  will  be  held  to  be  justified 
in  making  an  elder  son,  if  he  thinks  fit  to  do 
so." 

"I  can  only  hope  that  he  will  be  fair  to 
Edith.  If  you  will  tell  him  that  from  me,  it  is 
all  that  I  will  ask  you  to  do." 

"  But  you  will  see  him  j-ourself  ?" 

"No,  mother;  not  till  I  have  been  to  Alling- 
ton. Then  I  will  see  him  again  or  not,  just  as 
he  pleases.  I  shall  stop  at  Guestwick,  and  will 
write  to  you  a  line  from  thence.  If  my  father 
decides  on  doing  any  thing,  let  me  know  at 
once,  as  it  will  be  necessary  that  I  should  get 
rid  of  the  lease  of  my  house." 

"Oh,  Henry!" 

"I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  it,  mo- 
ther, and  I  believe  I  am  right.  Whether  I  am 
right  or  wrong,  I  shall  do  it.  I  Avill  not  ask 
you  now  for  any  promise  or  pledge  ;  but  should 
Miss  Crawley  become  my  wife  I  hope  that  you 
at  least  will  not  refuse  to  see  her  as  your  daugh- 
ter." Having  so  spoken,  he  kissed  his  mother, 
and  was  aboiit  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  she  held 
him  by  his  arm,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  "  Dearest  mother,  if  I  grieve  you 
I  am  son-y  indeed." 

"Not  me,  not  me,  not  me," she  said. 

"  For  my  father,  I  can  not  help  it.  Had  he 
not  threatened  me  I  should  have  told  him  also. 
As  he  has  done  so,  you  must  tell  him.  But 
give  him  my  kindest  love." 

"  Oh,  Henry !  you  will  be  ruined.  You  will, 
indeed.  Can  you  not  wait?  Remember  how 
headstrong  your  father  is,  and  yet  how  good ; 
and  how  he  loves  yen !  Think  of  all  that  he 
has  done  for  you.  When  did  he  refuse  you 
any  thing?" 

"He  has  been  good  to  me,  but  in  this  I  can 
not  obey  him.     He  should  not  ask  me." 

"  You  are  wrong.    Y'ou  arc  indeed.    He  has 


100 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


a  rii^ht  to  expect  tlmt  you  will  not  bring  dis- 
grace upon  the  family." 

"Nor  will  I;  except  such  disgrace  as  may 
attend  upon  poverty.  Good -by,  mother.  I 
wish  you  could  have  said  one  kind  word  to  me." 

"  Have  I  not  said  a  kind  word  ?" 

"  Not  as  yet,  mother." 

"I  would  not  for  worlds  speak  unkindly  to 
you.  If  it  were  not  for  your  father  I  would  bid 
you  bring  whom'you  pleased  home  to  me  as 
your  wife ;  and  I  would  be  as  a  mother  to  her. 
And  if  tliis  girl  should  become  your  wife — " 

"It  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  she  does  not." 

"  I  will  try  to  love  her — some  day." 

Tiien  the  major  went,  leaving  Edith  at  the 
rectory,  as  requested  by  his  mother.  His  own 
dog-cart  and  his  servant  were  at  Plumstead, 
and  he  drove  himself  home  to  Cosby  Lodge. 

When  the  archdeacon  returned  tlie  news  was 
told  to  him  at  once.  "Henry  has  gone  to  Al- 
lington  to  propose  to  Miss  Crawley,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"  Gone — without  speaking  to  me!" 

"He  left  his  love,  and  said  that  it  was  use- 
less his  remaining,  as  he  knew  he  should  only 
offend  you." 

"He  has  made  his  bed,  and  he  must  lie  upon 
it,"  said  tlic  archdeacon.  And  then  there  was 
not  another  word  said  about  Grace  Crawley  on 
that  occasion. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLfTIOX. 

The  ladies  at  the  Small  House  at  Allington 
breakfasted  always  at  nine — a  liberal  nine ;  and 
the  postman  whose  duty  it  was  to  deliver  letters 
in  that  village  at  half  past  eight,  being  also  lib- 
eral in  his  ideas  as  to  time,  always  arrived  punc- 
tually in  the  middle  of  breakfast,  so  that  Mrs. 


Dale  expected  her  letters,  and  Lily  hers,  just 
before  their  second  cup  of  tea,  as  though  the 
letters  formed  a  part  of  the  morning  meal. 
Jane,  the  maid-servant,  always  brought  them 
in,  and  handed  them  to  Mrs.  Dale — for  Lily 
had  in  these  days  come  to  preside  at  the  break- 
fast-table ;  and  then  there  would  be  an  exam- 
ination of  the  outsides  before  the  envelopes  were 
violated,  and  as  each  knew  pretty  well  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  correspondence  of  the  oth- 
er, there  would  be  some  guessing  as  to  what  this 
or  that  epistle  might  contain ;  and  after  that  a 
reading  out  loud  of  passages,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  of  the  entire  letter.  But  now,  at  the 
time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Grace  Crawley 
was  at  the  SmalMIouse,  and  therefore  the  com- 
mon practice  was  somewhat  in  abeyance. 

On  one  of  the  first  days  of  the  new  year  Jane 
brought  in  the  letters  as  usual,  and  handed  them 
to  Mrs.  Dale.  Lily  was  at  the  time  occupied 
with  the  tea-pot,  but  still  she  saw  the  letters, 
and  had  not  her  hands  so  full  as  to  be  debarred 
from  the  expression  of  her  usual  anxiety. — 
"Jlamma,  I'm  sure  I  see  two  there  for  me," 
she  said.  "Only  one  for  you,  Lily,"  said  ]Mrs, 
Dale.  Lily  instantly  knew  from  the  tone  of 
the  voice  that  some  letter  had  come  which  by 
the  very  aspect  of  the  handwriting  had  disturbed  | 
her  mother.  "  There  is  one  for  you,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Dale,  throwing  a  letter  across  tlie  ta- 
ble to  Grace.  "  And  one  for  you,  Lily,  from 
Bell.  The  others  are  for  me."  "And  whom 
are  yours  from,  mamma?"  asked  Lily.  "One 
is  from  Mrs.  Jones  ;  the  other,  I  think,  is  a  let- 
ter on  business."  Then  Lily  said  nothing  far- 
ther, but  she  observed  that  her  mother  only  open- 
ed one  of  her  letters  at  the  breakfast-table. 
Lily  was  very  patient — not  by  nature,  I  tliink, 
but  by  exercise  and  practice.  She  had,  once  in 
her  life,  been  too  mucli  in  a  hurry;  and  having 
then  burned  herself  grievously,  she  now  feared 
the  fire.  She  did  not  therefore  follow  her  mo- 
ther after  breakfast,  but  sat  with  Grace  over  the 
fire,  hemming  diligently  at  certain  articles  of 
clothing  which  were  intended  for  use  in  the 
Hogglcstock  parsonage.  The  two  girls  were 
making  a  set  of  new  shirts  for  Mr.  Crawley, 
"But  I  know  he  will  ask  where  they  come' 
from,"  said  Grace;  "and  then  mamma  will  be 
scolded."  "But  I  hope  he'll  wear  them,"  said 
Lily.  "Sooner  or  later  he  will,"  said  Grace; 
"because  mamma  manages  generally  to  have 
her  way  at  last."  Then  they  went  en  for  an 
hour  or  so,  talking  about  the  home  aflairs  at 
Hogglestock.  But  during  the  whole  time  Lil3''s 
mind  was  intent  upon  iier  mother's  letter. 

Nothing  was  said  about  it  at  lunch,  and  no- 
thing when  they  walked  out  after  lunch,  for 
Lily  was  very  ])atient.  But  during  the  walk 
Mrs.  Dale  became  aware  that  her  daughter  was  ; 
uneasy.  These  two  watched  each  other  uncon- 
sciously with  a  closeness  which  hardly  allowed 
a  glance  of  the  eye,  certainly  not  a  tone  of  the 
voice,  to  j)ass  unobserved.  To  Mrs.  Dale  it  was 
every  thing  in  the  world  that  her  daughter  siioiid  i 
be,  if  not  happj'  at  heart,  at  least  tranquil ;  and 


THE  LAST  CIIRONIC):.E  OF  BAKSET. 


101 


to  Lily,  who  knew  that  her  mother  was  always 
thinking  of  her,  and  of  her  alone,  lier  motlier 
was  the  only  human  divinity  now  worthy  of  ad- 
oration. But  nothing  was  said  about  tlie  let- 
ter during  the  walk. 

When  they  came  home  it  was  nearly  dusk, 
and  it  was  their  habit  to  sit  up  for  a  while  without 
candles,  talking,  till  the  evening  had  in  truth 
set  in  and  the  unmistakable  and  enforced  idle- 
ness of  remaining  without  candles  was  apparent. 
During  this  time  Lily,  demanding  patience  of 
IierseU'  all  the  while,  was  thinking  what  she 
would  do,  or  rather  what  she  would  say,  about 
the  letter.  That  nothing  could  be  done  or 
said  in  tlie  presence  of  Grace  Crawley  was  a 
matter  of  course,  nor  would  she  do  or  say  any 
thing  to  get  rid  of  Grace.  She  would  be  very 
patient;  but  she  would,  at  last,  ask  her  mother 
about  the  letter. 

And  then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Grace  Craw- 
ley got  up  and  left  the  room.  Lily  still  waited 
for  a  few  minutes,  and,  in  order  that  her  patience 
miu'ht  be  thoroughly  exercised,  she  said  a  word 
or  two  about  her  sister  Bell;  how  the  eldest 
oliild's  whooping-cough  was  nearly  well,  and  how 
the  baby  was  doing  wonderful  things  with  its 
fii,st  tooth.  But  as  ]\Irs.  Dale  had  already  seen 
Bell's  letter,  all  tliis  was  not  intensely  interest- 
in-.  At  last  Lily  came  to  the  point  and  asked 
her  ([ucstion.  "Mamma,  from  whom  was  that 
other  letter  which  you  got  this  morning?" 

Our  story  will  perhaps  be  best  told  by  com- 
municating the  letter  to  the  reader  before  it  was 
diseiissed  with  Lily.  The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

''  General  Committee  Office,  —  January^  1S6-." 

I  should  have  said  that  Mrs.  Dale  had  not 
opened  the  letter  till  she  had  found  herself  in 
the  solitude  of  her  own  bedroom;  and  that 
then,  before  doing  so,  she  liad  examined  the 
handwriting  with  anxious  eyes.  When  she 
first  received  it  she  thought  she  knew  the  writ- 
er, but  was  not  sure.  Then  she  had  glanced 
at  the  impression  over  the  fastening,  and  had 
known  at  once  from  whom  the  letter  had  come. 
It  was  from  Mr.  Crosbie,  the  man  who  had 
brought  so  much  trouble  into  her  house,  who 
had  jilted  her  daughter;  the  only  man  in  the 
ivorld  whom  she  had  a  right  to  regard  as  a  posi- 
tive enemy  to  herself.  She  had  no  doubt  about 
t  as  she  tore  the  envelope  open ;  and  yet,  when 
the  address  given  made  her  quite  sure,  a  new 
feeling  of  shivering  came  upon  her,  and  she 
isked  herself  whether  it  might  not  be  better 
;hat  she  should  send  his  letter  back  to  him  with- 
out reading  it.     But  she  read  it. 

"Madam" — the  letter  began — "  You  will  be 
i^ery  much  surprised  to  hear  from  me,  and  I  am 
juite  aware  that  I  am  not  entitled  to  the  ordi- 
lary  courtesy  of  an  acknowledgment  from  you, 
;hould  you  be  pleased  to  throw  my  letter  on  one 
side  as  unworthy  of  your  notice.  But  I  can  not 
'efrain  from  addressing  you,  and  must  leave  it 
^^ou  to  reply  to  me  or  not,  as  you  may  think 

^I  will  only  refer  to  that  episode  of  my  life 


with  which  you  are  acquainted,  for  the  sake  of 
acknowledging  my  great  fault  and  of  assuring 
you  that  I  did  not  go  unpunished.  It  would 
be  useless  for  me  now  to  attempt  to  explain  to 
you  the  circumstances  which  led  me  into  that 
difiiculty  which  ended  in  so  great  a  blunder; 
but  I  will  ask  you  to  believe  that  my  folly  was 
greater  than  my  sin. 

"But  I  will  come  to  my  point  at  once.  You 
are,  no  doubt,  aware  that  I  married  a  daughter 
of  Lord  de  Courcy,  and  that  I  was  separated 
from  my  wife  a  few  weeks  after  our  unfortunate 
marriage.  It  is  now  something  over  twelve 
months  since  she  died  at  Baden-Baden  in  her 
mother's  house.  I  never  saw  her  since  the  day 
we  first  parted.  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against 
her.  The  fault  was  mine  in  marrying  a  woman 
whom  I  did  not  love  and  had  never  loved. 
W^hen  I  married  Lady  Alexandrina  I  loved,  not 
her,  but  your  daughter. 

"  I  believe  I  may  venture  to  say  to  you  that 
your  daughter  once  loved  me.  From  the  day 
on  which  I  last  wrote  to  you  that  terrible  letter 
which  told  you  of  my  fate  I  have  never  men- 
tioned the  name  of  Lily  Dale  to  human  ears. 
It  has  been  too  sacred  for  my  mouth — too  sa- 
cred for  the  intercourse  of  any  friendship  with 
which  I  have  been  blessed.  I  now  use  it  for 
the  first  time  to  you,  in  order  that  I  may  ask 
whether  it  be  possible  that  her  old  love  should 
ever  live  again.  Mine  has  lived  always — has 
never  faded  for  an  hour,  making  me  miserable 
during  the  years  that  have  passed  since  I  saw 
her,  but  capable  of  making  me  very  happy  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  see  her  again. 

"  You  will  understand  my  purpose  now  as 
well  as  though  I  were  to  write  pages.  I  have 
no  scheme  formed  in  my  head  for  seeing  your 
daughter  again.  How  can  I  dare  to  form  a 
scheme,  when  I  am  aware  that  the  chance  of 
success  must  be  so  strong  against  me?  But  if 
you  will  tell  me  that  there  can  be  a  gleam  of 
hope  I  will  obey  any  commands  that  you  can 
put  upon  me  in  any  way  that  you  may  point 
out.  I  am  free  again — and  she  is  free.  I  lovo 
her  with  all  my  heart,  and  seem  to  long  for  no- 
thing in  the  world  but  that  she  should  become 
my  wife.  Whether  any  of  her  old  love  may 
still  abide  with  her  you  will  know.  If  it  do,  it 
may  even  yet  prompt  her  to  forgive  one  wlio,  in 
spite  of  falseness  of  conduct,  has  yet  been  true 
to  her  in  heart. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be.  Madam, 

"  Your  most  obedient  seiTant, 

"Adolpiius  Ckosbik." 

This  was  the  letter  which  Mrs.  Dale  had  re- 
ceived, and  as  to  which  she  had  not  as  yet  said 
a  word  to  Lily,  or  even  made  up  her  mind 
whether  she  would  say  a  word  or  not.  Dearly 
as  the  mother  and  daughter  loved  each  other, 
thorough  as  was  the  confidence  between  them, 
yet  the  name  of  Adolphus  Crosbie  had  not  been 
mentioned  between  them  oftcner,  perhaps,  than 
half  a  dozen  times  since  the  blow  had  been 
struck.      Mrs.  Dale   knew   that   their  feelings 


X 


102 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAHSET. 


about  tlic  iiinn  wore  altogether  ditVcrent.  She, 
herself,  not  only  contlemncd  him  for  what 
he  had  done,  believing  it  to  be  impossible  that 
any  shadow  of  excuse  could  be  urged  for  his  of- 
fense, thinking  tiiat  the  fault  liad  shown  tlie 
man  to  bo  mean  beyontl  redemjition,  but  she 
had  allowed  herself  actually  to  hate  him.  lie 
liad  in  one  sense  murdered  her  daughter,  and 
she  believed  that  she  could  never  forgive  him. 
But  Lily,  as  her  mother  well  knew,  had  for- 
given this  man  altogether,  had  made  excuses 
for  him  which  cleansed  his  sin  of  all  its  black- 
ness in  her  own  eyes,  and  was  to  this  day  anx- 
ious as  ever  for  his  welfare  and  his  happiness. 
Mrs.  Dale  feared  that  Lily  did  iu  truth  love  him 
still.  If  it  was  so,  was  she  not  bound  to  show 
licr  this  letter  ?  Lily  was  old  enough  to  judge 
for  herself — old  enough,  and  wise  enough  too. 
Mrs.  Dale  told  herself  half  a  score  of  times  that 
morning  that  she  could  not  be  justified  in  keep- 
ing the  letter  from  her  daughter. 

But  yet  she  much  wished  that  the  letter  had 
never  been  written,  and  would  have  given  very 
much  to  be  able  to  put  it  out  of  the  way  without 
injustice  to  Lily.  To  her  thinking  it  would  be 
impossible  that  Lily  should  be  happy  in  marry- 
ing such  a,  man.  Such  a  marriage  now  would 
be,  as  Mrs.  Dale  thought,  a  degradation  to  her 
daughter.  A  terrible  injury  had  been  done  to 
her;  but  such  reparation  as  this  ^vt)uld,  in  Mrs. 
Dale's  eyes,  only  make  the  injury  deeper.  And 
yet  Lily  loved  the  man  ;  and,  loving  him',  how 
could  she  resist  the  temptation  of  his  offer? 
"Mamma,  from  whom  was  that  letter  which 
you  got  this  morning?"  Lily  asked.  For  a  few 
moments  Mrs.  Dale  remained  silent.  ' '  Mamma," 
continued  Lily,  "I  think  I  know  whom  it  was 
from.  If  you  tell  me  to  ask  nothing  further  of 
course  I  will  not." 

"  No,  Lil}' ;  I  can  not  tell  you  that." 
"  Then,  mamma,  out  with  it  at  once.    What 
is  the  use  of  shivering  on  the  brink?" 
"It  was  from  Mr.  Crosbie." 
"I  knew  it.     I  can  not  tell  you  why,  but  I 
knew  it.     And  now,  mamma — am  I  to  read  it  ?" 
"  You  shall  do  as  you  please,  Lily." 
"Then  I  please  to  read  it." 
"Listen  to  me  a  moment  first.     For  myself, 
I  wish  that  the  letter  had  never  been  written. 
It  tells  badly  for  the  man,  as  I  think  of  it.     I 
can  not  understand  how  any  man  could  have 
brought  himself  to  address  either  you  or  me  aft- 
er having  acted  as  he  acted." 

"But,  mamma,  we  differ  about  all  that,  you 
know." 

' '  Now  he  has  written,  and  there  is  the  letter 
— if  you  choose  to  read  it." 

Lily  had  it  in  her  hand,  but  she  still  sat  mo- 
tionless, holding  it.  "You  think,  mamma,  I 
ought  not  to  read  it?" 

"You  must  judge  for  yourself,  dearest." 
"And  if  I  do  not  read  it,  what  shall  you  do, 
mamma  ?" 

"  I  shall  do  nothing — or,  perhaps,  I  should  in 
such  a  case  acknowledge  it,  and  tell  him  that  we 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  him." 


"  That  would  be  very  stern." 
"  He  has  done  that  which  makes  some  stern- 
ness necessary." 

Then  Lily  was  again  silent,  and  still  she 
sat  motionless,  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
"Mamma,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  if  you  tell  me 
not  to  read  it,  I  will  give  it  you  back  unread. 
If  you  bid  me  exercise  my  own  judgment,  I  shall 
take  it  up  stairs  and  read  it." 

"  You  must  exercise  your  own  judgment,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale.  Then  Lily  got  up  from  her  chair 
and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room,  and  went  to 
her  mother's  chamber.  The  thoughts  which 
j)asscd  through  Mrs.  Dale's  mind  while  her 
daughter  was  reading  the  letter  were  very  sad. 
She  could  find  no  comfort  anywhere.  Lily,  she 
told  herself,  would  surely  give  way  to  this  man's 
renewed  expressions  of  aifection,  and  she,  Mrs. 
Dale  herself,  would  be  called  upon  to  give  her 
child  to  a  man  whom  she  could  neither  love  nor 
respect — whom,  for  aught  she  knew,  she  could 
never  cease  to  hate.  And  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  believe  that  Lily  would  be  happy  with 
such  a  man.  As  for  lier  own  life,  desolate  as  it 
would  be — she  cared  little  for  that.  IMothers 
know  that  their  daughters  will  leave  them. 
Even  widowed  mothers,  mothers  with  but  one 
child  left — such  a  one  as  was  this  mother — are 
awai'e  that  they  will  be  left  .alone,  and  they  can 
bring  themselves  to  welcome  the  sacrifice  of 
themselves  with  something  of  satisfaction.  Mrs. 
Dale  and  Lily  had,  indeed,  of  late  become  bound 
together  especially,  so  that  the  mother  had  been 
justified  in  regarding  the  link  which  joined  then^ 
as  being  firmer  than  that  by  which  most  daugh- 
ters are  bound  to  their  mothers — but  in  all  that 
she  would  have  found  no  regret.  Even  now,  in 
these  very  days,  she  was  hoping  that  Lily  might 
yet  be  brought  to  give  herself  to  John  Eames. 
But  she  could  not,  after  all  that  was  come  and 
gone,  be  happy  in  thinking  that  Lily  should  be 
given  to  Adolphus  Crosbie. 

When  Mrs.  Dale  went  up  stairs  to  her  own 
room  before  dinner  Lily  was  not  there ;  nor  were 
they  alone  together  again  that  evening,  except  for 
a  moment,  when  Lily,  as  was  usual,  went  into 
her  mother's  room  when  she  -was  undressing. 
But  neither  of  them  then  said  a  word  about  the 
letter.  Lily  during  dinner  and  throughout  the 
evening  had  borne  herself  well,  giving  no  sign 
of  special  emotion,  keeping  to  herself  entirely 
her  own  thoughts  about  the  proposition  made  to 
her.  And  afterward  she  had  progressed  dili- 
gently with  the  fivbrication  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
shirts,  as  though  she  had  no  such  letter  in  her 
pocket.  And  yet  there  w-as  not  a  moment  in 
which  she  was  not  thinking  of  it.  To  Grace, 
just  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  did  say  one 
word.  "  I  wonder  whether  it  can  ever  come  tp 
a  person  to  be  so  placed  that  there  can  be  no 
doing  right  let  what  will  be  done — that,  do  or 
not  do,  as  you  may,  it  must  be  wrong  ? 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  in  such  a  condition,"  said 
Grace. 

"I  am  something  near  it,"  said  Lily 
perhaps  if  I  look  long  enough  I  shall  see  the  li 


iifl." 


H 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAR3ET. 


103 


"I  hope  it  will  be  a  happy  lightat  last,"  said 
Grace,  wlio  thought  that  Lily  was  referring  only 
to  John  Eames. 

At  noon  on  the  next  day  Lily  had  still  said 
nothing  to  her  mother  about  the  letter ;  and 
then  what  she  said  was  very  little.     "When 
must  you  answer  Mr.  Crosbie,  mamma?" 
"When,  my  dear?" 

"I  mean  how  long  may  you  take?  It  need 
not  be  to-day." 

"  No ;  certainly  not  to-day." 
"  Then  I  will  talk  over  it  with  you  to-mor- 
row.     It  wants  some  thinking — does  it  not, 
mamma?" 

"It  w-ould  not  want  much  with  me,  Lily." 
"But  then,  mamma,  you  arc  not  I.     Believ- 
ing as  I  believe,  feeling  as  I  feel,  it  wants  some 
thinking.     That's  what  I  mean." 
"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  my  dear." 
"You   shall    help    me — to-morrow."      The 
morrow  came  and  Lily  was  still  very  patient  ; 
but  she  had  prepared  herself,  and  had  prepared 
the  time  also,  so  that  in  the  hour  of  the  gloam- 
ing slie  was  alone  with  her  mother,  and  sure 
that  she  might  remain  alone  with  her  for  an  hour 
or  so.      "Alamma,  sit  there,"  she  said  ;  "Iwill 
sit  down  here,  and  then  I  can  lean  against  3-ou 
and  be  comfortable.     You  can  bear  as  much  of 
me  as  that — can't  you,  mamma?"     Then  JMrs. 
Dale  put  her  arm  over  Lily's  shoulder,  and  em- 
braced her  daughter.     "  And  now,  mamma,  we 
will  talk  about  this  wonderful  letter." 
■        "I  do  not  know,  dear,  that  I  have  any  thing 
[  to  say  about  it." 

'       "But  you  must  have  something  to  say  about 

I  it,  mamma.     You  must  bring  yourself  to  have 

something  to  say — to  have  a  great  deal  to  say." 

"You  know  what  I  think  as  well  as  though  I 

talked  for  a  week." 

"  That  won't  do,  mamma.     Come,  you  must 
not  be  hard  with  me." 
"Hard,  Lily!" 

"I  don't  mean  that  you  will  hurt  me,  or  not 
give  me  any  food — or  that  you  will  not  go  on 
caring  about  me  more  than  any  thing  else  in  the 
whole  world  ten  times  over — "  And  Lily  as 
she  spoke  tightened  the  embrace  of  her  mother's 
arm  round  her  neck.  "I'm  not  afraid  you'll 
be  hard  in  that  way.  But  you  must  soften  your 
heart  so  as  to  be  able  to  mention  liis  name  and 
talk  about  him,  and  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do. 
You  must  see  with  my  eyes,  and  hear  with  my 
ears,  and  feel  with  my  heart ;  and  then,  when 
I  know  that  you  have  done  that,  I  must  judge 
with  your  judgment." 

"I  wish  you  to  use  your  own." 
"Yes;  because  you  won't  see  with  my  eyes 
and  hear  with  my  cars.  That's  what  I  call  be- 
ing hard.  Though  you  should  feed  me  with 
blood  from  your  breast,  I  should  call  you  a  hard 
pelican  unless  you  could  give  me  also  the  sym- 
pathy which  I  demand  from  you.  You  see, 
mamma,  we  have  never  allowed  ourselves  to 
SDeak  of  this  man." 

^■What  need  has  there  been,  dearest?" 
^  Only  because  we  have  been  thinking  of 


him.     Out  of  the  full  heart  the  mouth  speaketh  ; 
that  is,  the  moutli  does  so  when  the  full  heart  is 
allowed  to  have  its  own  way  comfortably." 
"There  are  things  which  should  be  forgotten." 
"Forgotten,  mamma!" 

"The  memory  of  which  should  not  be  fos- 
tered by  much  talking." 

"I  have  never  blamed  you,  mamma;  never, 
even  in  my  heart.  I  have  known  how  good 
and  gracious  and  sweet  you  have  been.  But  I 
have  often  accused  myself  of  cowardice  because 
I  have  not  allowed  his  name  to  cross  my  lips 
either  to  you  or  to  Bell.  To  talk  of  forgetting 
such  an  accident  as  that  is  a  farce.  And  as  for 
fostering  the  memory  of  it — !  Do  you  think 
that  I  have  ever  spent  a  night  from  that  time  to 
this  without  thinking  of  him  ?  Do  you  imagine 
that  I  have  ever  crossed  our  own  lawn,  or  gone 
down  through  the  garden-path  there,  witliout 
thinking  of  the  times  when  he  and  I  walked 
there  together?  There  needs  no  fostering  for 
such  memories  as  those.  They  are  weeds  which 
will  grow  rank  and  strong  though  nothing  be 
done  to  foster  them.  There  is  the  earth  and 
the  rain,  and  that  is  enough  for  them.  You  can 
not  kill  them  if  j'ou  would,  and  tliey  certainly 
will  not  die  because  you  are  careful  not  to  hoe 
and  rake  the  ground." 

"  Lily,  you  forget  how  short  the  time  has 
been  as  yet:" 

"I  have  thought  it  very  long;  but  the  truth 
is,  mamma,  that  this  non-fostering  of  memories, 
as  you  call  it,  has  not  been  the  real  cause  of  our 
silence.  We  have  not  spoken  of  Mr.  Crosbie 
because  we  have  not  thought  alike  about  him. 
Had  you  spoken  you  would  have  spoken  with  an- 
ger, and  I  could  not  endure  to  hear  him  abused. 
That  has  been  it." 
"Partly  so,  Lily." 

"Now  j-ou  must  talk  of  him,  and  you  must 
not  abuse  him.  We  must  talk  of  him,  because 
something  must  be  done  about  his  letter.  Even 
if  it  be  left  unanswered,  it  can  not  bo  so  left 
without  discussion.  And  yet  you  must  say  no 
evil  of  him." 

"Am  I  to  think  that  he  behaved  well?" 
"No,  mamma;   you  arc  not  to  think  that; 
but  you  arc  to  look  upon  his  fault  as  a  fault  that 
has  been  forgiven." 

"It  can  not  be  forgotten,  dear." 
"But,  mamma,  when  you  go  to  heaven — " 
"My  dear!" 

"But  you  will  go  to  heaven,  mamma,  and 
why  should  I  not  speak  of  it?  You  will  go  to 
heaven,  and  yet  I  suppose  you  have  been  very 
wicked,  because  we  are  all  very  wicked.  But 
you  won't  be  told  of  your  w^ickedness  there.  You 
won't  be  hated  there  because  you  were  this  or 
that  when  you  were  here." 

"I  hope  not,  Lily;  but  isn't  your  argument 
almost  profane?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  so.  We  ask  to  be  for- 
given just  as  we  forgive.  That  is  the  way  in 
which  we  hope  to  be  forgiven,  and  therefore  it 
is  the  way  in  which  we  ought  to  forgive.  When 
you  say  that  prayer  at  night,  mamma,  do  you 


104 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ever  ask  yourself  whetlier  you  have  forgiven 
him?" 

"I  forgive  him  as  far  as  humanity  can  for- 
give.    I  would  do  him  no  injury." 

"But  if  you  and  I  are  forgiven  only  after  that 
fashion  we  shall  never  get  to  heaven."  Lily 
paused  for  some  further  answer  from  her  mo- 
ther, but  as  Mrs.  Dale  was  silent  she  allowed 
that  portion  of  the  subject  to  pass  as  completed. 
"And  now,  mamma,  what  answer  do  you  think 
we  otijiht  to  send  to  his  letter?" 

"  My  dear,  how  am  I  to  say  ?  You  know  I 
have  said  already  that  if  I  could  act  on  my  own 
judgment  I  would  send  none." 

"But  that  was  said  in  the  bitterness  of  gall." 

"Come,  Lily,  say  wliat  you  think  yourself. 
We  sliall  get  on  better  when  you  have  brouglit 
yourself  to  sj)eak.  Uo  you  think  that  you  wish 
to  sec  liim  again?" 

"I  don't  know,  mamma.  Upon  the  whole, 
I  think  not." 

"Then  in  Heaven's  name  let  me  write  and 
tell  him  so." 

"Stop  a  moment,  mamma.  There  are  two 
persons  here  to  be  considered — or  rather  three." 

"I  would  not  have  you  think  of  me  in  such 
a  question." 

"I  know  you  would  not ;  but  never  mind,  and 
let  me  go  on.  The  three  of  us  arc  concerned, 
at  any  rate  ;  you,  and  he,  and  I.  I  am  think- 
ing of  him  now.  We  have  all  suffered,  but  I 
do  believe  that  hitherto  he  has  had  the  worst  of 
it." 

"And  who  has  deserved  the  worst?" 

"  Mamma,  how  can  you  go  back  in  that  way  ? 
We  have  agreed  that  that  should  be  regarded  as 
done  and  gone.  He  has  been  very  unhappy, 
and  now  we  see  what  remedy  he  proposes  to  him- 
self for  his  misery.  Do  I  flatter  myself  if  I  al- 
low myself  to  look  at  it  in  that  way?" 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  is  offering  a  remedy 
for  your  misery." 

As  this  was  said  Lily  turned  round  slowly  and 
looked  up  into  her  mother's  fiice.  "  Mamma," 
she  said,  "  that  is  very  cruel.  I  did  not  think 
you  could  be  so  cruel.  How  can  you,  who  be- 
lieve him  to  be  so  selfish,  think  that?" 

"  It  is  very  hard  to  judge  of  men's  motives. 
I  have  never  supposed  him  to  be  so  black  that 
he  would  not  wish  to  make  atonement  for  the 
evil  he  has  done." 

"If  I  thought  that  there  certainly  could  be 
but  one  answer." 

"  Who  can  look  into  a  man's  heart  and  judge 
all  the  sources  of  his  actions  ?  There  are  mixed 
feelings  there,  no  doubt.  Remorse  for  what  he 
has  done ;  regret  for  what  he  has  lost — some- 
thing, perhaps,  of  the  purity  of  love." 

"  Yes,  something — I  hope  something — for  his 
sake." 

"  But  when  a  horse  kicks  and  bites  you  know 
his  nature  and  do  not  go  near  him.  When  a 
man  has  cheated  you  once  you  think  he  will 
cheat  you  again,  and  you  do  not  deal  with  him. 
You  do  not  look  to  gather  grapes  from  thistles 
after  vou  have  found  that  thev  are  thistles." 


"I  still  go  for  the  roses  though  I  have  often 
torn  my  hand  with  thorns  in  looking  for  tliem." 

"But  you  do  not  pluck  those  that  have  be- 
come cankered  in  the  blowing." 

"Because  he  was  once  at  fault  will  he  be 
cankered  always  ?" 

"  I  would  not  trust  him." 

"  Now,  mamma,  see  how  different  we  are ; 
or,  rather,  how  different  it  is  when  one.  judges 
for  one's  self  or  for  another.  If  it  were  simply 
myself,  and  my  own  future  fate  in  life,  I  would 
trust  him  with  it  all  to-morrow  without  a  word. 
I  should  go  to  him  as  a  gambler  goes  to  the 
gambling-table,  knowing  that  if  I  lost  every 
thing  I  could  hardly  be  jioorer  than  I  was  before. 
But  I  should  have  a  better  hope  than  the  gam- 
bler is  justified  in  having.  That,  however,  is  not 
my  difficulty.  And  when  I  think  of  him  I  can 
sec  a  prospect  of  success  for  the  gambler.  I 
think  so  well  of  myself  that,  loving  him,  as  I  do 
— yes,  mamma,  do  not  be  uneasy — loving  him, 
as  I  do,  I  believe  I  could  be  a  comfort  to  him. 
I  think  that  he  might  be  better  witli  me  than 
without  me.  That  is,  he  would  be  so  if  he  could 
teach  himself  to  look  back  upon  the  past  as  I  can 
do,  and  to  judge  of  me  as  I  can  judge  of  him." 

"He  has  nothing,  at  least,  for  which  to  con- 
demn you." 

"But  he  would  have  were  I  to  marry  him 
now.  He  would  condemn  me  because  I  had 
forgiven  him.  He  would  condemn  me  because 
I  had  borne  what  he  had  done  to  me  and  had 
still  loved  him — loved  him  through  it  all.  He 
would  feel  and  know  the  weakness — and  there 
is  weakness.  I  have  been  weak  in  not  being 
able  to  rid  myself  of  him  altogether.  He  would 
recognize  this  after  a  while,  and  would  despise 
me  for  it.  But  he  would  not  see  what  there  is 
of  devotion  to  him  in  my  being  able  to  bear  the 
taunts  of  the  world  in  going  back  to  him,  and 
your  taunts,  and  my  own  taunts.  I  should  have 
to  bear  his  also — not  spoken  aloud,  but  to  be 
seen  in  his  face  and  heard  in  his  voice — and 
that  I  could  not  endure.  If  he  despised  me,, 
and  he  would,  that  would  make  us  both  unhappy. 
Therefore,  mamma,  tell  him  not  to  come ;  tell 
him  that  he  can  never  come ;  but,  if  it  be  possi- 
ble, tell  him  this  tenderly."  Then  she  got  up 
and  walked  away,  as  though  she  were  going  out 
of  the  room ;  but  her  mother  had  cauglit  her 
before  tlie  door  was  opened. 

"Lily,"  she  said,  "if  you  think  you  can  be 
happy  with  him,  he  shall  come." 

"No,  mamma,  no.  I  have  been  looking  for 
the  light  ever  since  I  read  his  letter,  and  I  think 
I  see  it.  And  now,  mamma,  I  will  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it.  From  the  moment  in  which 
I  heard  that  that  poor  woman  was  dead  I  have 
been  in  a  state  of  flutter.  It  has  been  weak  of 
me,  and  silly,  and  contemptible.  But  I  could 
not  help  it.  I  kept  on  asking  myself  whether  he 
would  ever  think  of  me  now.  Well ;  he  has 
answered  the  question  ;  and  has  so  done  it  that 
he  has  forced  upon  me  the  necessity  of  a  resolu- 
tion. I  have  resolved,  and  I  believe  that  I  s]M0 
be  the  better  for  it." 


H 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


lot: 


Tlic  letter  wliicli  ]\Irs.  Dale  wrote  to  Sir. 
Crosbic,  was  as  follows ; 

"  Mks.  Dale  presents  her  com]ilimcnts  to 
Mr.  Crosbie,  and  begs  to  assure  liiin  that  it  will 
not  now  be  possible  that  he  should  renew  the 
relations  which  were  broken  off"  three  years  ago 
between  him  and  Mrs.  Dale's  faniil}'."  It  was 
very  short,  certainly,  and  it  did  not  by  any 
means  satisfy  Mrs.  Dale.  But  she  did  not 
know  how  to  say  more  without  saying  too  much. 
The  object  of  her  letter  was  to  save  hitn  the 
trouble  of  a  futile  perseverance,  and  them  from 
the  annoyance  of  persecution ;  and  this  she 
wished  to  do  without  mentioning  her  daugliter's 
name.  And  she  was  determined  that  no  word 
should  escajie  her  in  which  tliere  was  any  touch 
of  severity,  any  hint  of  an  accusation.  So  much 
she  owed  to  Lily  in  return  for  all  that  Lily  was 
prepared  to  abandon.  "There  is  my  note,"  she 
said  at  last,  offering  it  to  her  daughter.  "I  did 
not  mean  to  see  it,"  said  Lily,  "  and,  mamma,  I 
will  not  read  it  now.  Let  it  go.  I  know  yon 
have  been  good  and  have  not  scolded  him." 
"I  have  not  scolded  him,  certainly,"  said  Mrs. 
I)ale.     And  then  the  letter  was  sent. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MRS.   DOUI5S    BROUGHTON's    DINNEK-PARTY. 

Mr.  John  Eames,  of  the  Income-tax  Office, 
had  in  these  days  risen  so  high  in  the  world 
that  people  in  the  West  End  of  town,  and  very 
respectable  people  too — ])cople  living  in  South 
Kensington,  in  neighborhoods  not  far  from  Bel- 
gravia,  and  in  very  handsome  houses  round 
Bayswater — were  glad  to  ask  him  out  to  dinner. 
Money  had  been  left  to  him  by  an  earl,  and  ru- 
mor had  of  course  magnified  that  monej-.  He 
was  a  private  secretary,  which  is  in  itself  a  great 
advance  on  being  a  mere  clerk.  And  he  had 
become  the  particularly  intimate  friend  of  an 
artist  who  Iiad  pushed  liimself  into  higli  fashion 
during  the  last  year  or  two — one  Conway  Dal- 
rymple,  \shom  the  rich  English  world  was  be- 
ginning to  pet  and  pelt  with  gilt  sugar-plums, 
and  who  seemed  to  take  very  kindly  to  petting 
and  gilt  sugar-plums.  I  don't  know  whether 
tlie  friendship  of  Conway  Dalrymjile  had  not 
done  as  much  to  secure  John  Eames  his  position 
at  the  Bayswater  dinner-tables  as  had  either  the 
private  secretaryship  or  the  earl's  money ;  and 
yet,  when  they  had  first  known  each  other,  now 
only  two  or  three  years  ago,  Conway  Dalrymple 
had  been  the  poorer  man  of  the  two.  Some 
chance  had  brought  them  together,  and  they 
had  lived  in  the  same  rooms  for  nearly  two  years. 
This  arrangement  had  been  broken  up,  and  the 
Conway  Dalrymple  of  these  days  had  a  studio 
of  his  own,  somewhere  near  Kensington  Palace, 
where  he  painted  portraits  of  young  countesses, 
and  in  which  he  had  even  painted  a  young  duch- 
ess. It  was  the  peculiar  merit  of  his  pictures — 
fWk  at  least  said  the  art-loving  world — that  though 
me  likeness  Vas  alwavs  good,  the  stiff"ness  of 
G 


the  modern  portrait  was  never  there.  There 
was  also  ever  some  story  told  in  Dalrymple's  pic- 
tures over  and  above  the  story  of  the  portraiture. 
This  countess  was  drawn  as  a  fairy  with  wings, 
that  countess  as  a  goddess  with  a  helmet.  The 
thing  took  for  a  time,  and  Conway  Dalrymjile 
was  picking  up  his  gilt  sugar-plums  with  con- 
siderable rapidity. 

On  a  certain  day  he  and  John  Eames  were  to 
dine  out  together  at  a  certain  house  in  that  Bays- 
water  district.  It  was  a  large  mansion,  if  not 
made  of  stone  yet  looking  very  stony,  with  thir- 
ty windows  at  least,  all  of  them  with  cut-stone 
frames,  requiring,  let  me  say,  at  least  four  thou- 
sand a  year  for  its  maintenance.  And  its  own- 
er, Dobbs  Broughton,  a  man  very  well  known 
both  in  the  city  and  over  the  grass  in  Northamp- 
tonshire, was  supposed  to  have  a  good  deal  more 
than  four  thousand  a  year.  Mrs.  Dobbs  Brough- 
ton, a  very  beautiful  woman,  who  certainly  was 
not  yet  thirty-five,  let  her  worst  enemies  say 
what  they  might,  had  been  painted  by  Conw.ay 
Dalrymple  as  a  Grace.  There  were,  of  course, 
three  Graces  in  the  picture,  but  each  Grace  was 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  repeated.  We  all  know 
how  Graces  stand  sometimes ;  two  Graces  look- 
ing one  wa}-,  and  one  the  other.  In  this  pic- 
ture Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  as  centre'  Grace 
looked  you  full  in  the  f;ice.  The  same  lady 
looked  away  from  you,  displaying  her  left  shoul- 
der as  one  side  Grace,  and  displaying  her  right 
shoulder  as  the  other  side  Grace.  For  this 
pretty  toy  Mr.  Conway  Dalrymple  had  jiicked 
up  a  gilt  sugar-plum  to  the  tune  of  six  hundred 
pounds,  and  had;  moreover,  won  the  heart  both 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  "LTpon 
my  word,  Johnny,"  Dalrymple  had  said  to  his 
friend,  "he's  a  deuced  good  fellow,  has  really 
a  good  glass  of  claret — which  is  getting  rarer 
and  rarer  every  day — and  will  mount  you  for  a 
day,  whenever  you  please,  down  at  Market  llar- 
boro'.  Come  and  dine  with  them."  Johnny 
Eames  condescended,  and  did  go  and  dine  with 
My.  Dobbs  Broughton.  I  wonder  whether  he 
remembered,  when  Conway  Dalrymjjle  was  talk- 
ing of  the  rarity  of  good  claret,  how  much  beer 
the  young  painter  used  to  drink  when  they  were 
out  together  in  the  country,  as  they  used  to  be  oc- 
casionally, three  years  ago  ;  and  how  the  paint- 
er had  then  been  used  to  complain  that  bitter 
beer  cost  threepence  a  glass,  instead  of  twoiience, 
which  had  hitherto  been  the  recognized  price  of 
the  article.  In  those  days  the  sugar-plums  had 
not  been  gilt,  and  had  been  much  rarer. 

Johnny  Eames  and  his  friend  went  together 
to  the  house  of  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton.  As 
Dalrymple  lived  close  to  the  Broughtons,  Eames 
picked  him  up  in  a  cab.  "Filthy  things  these 
cabs  are,"  said  Dalrymple,  as  he  got  into  the 
Hansom. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Johnny. 
"They're  pretty  good,  I  think." 

"Foul  things,"  said  Conway.  "Don't  j-ou 
feel  what  a  draught  comes  in  here  because  the 
glass  is  cracked  ?  I'd  have  one  of  my  own, 
onlv  I  should  never  know  what  to  do  with  it." 


106 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  Tlic  fjreatest  nuisance  on  earth,  I  should 
tliink,"  said  Jolinny. 

'•If  you  could  always  have  it  standing  ready 
round  the  corner,"  said  the  artist,  "it  would  be 
delijjlitfiil.  IJut  one  would  want  half  a  dozen 
horses,  anil  two  or  tlirec  men  for  that." 

'•  I  think  the  stands  are  the  best,"  said 
Johnny. 

Tiiey  were  a  little  late — a  little  later  than 
they  should  have  been  had  they  considered  that 
Eanies  was  to  he  introduced  to  his  new  ac- 
(luaintanccs.  But  he  had  already  lived  long 
enough  before  the  world  to  be  quite  at  his  ease 
in  swell  circumstances,  and  he  entered  Mrs. 
Brougiiton's  drawing-room  with  iiis  ))lcasantest 
smile  upon  his  face.  But  as  he  entered  he  saw 
a  siglit  which  made  him  look  serious  in  spite  of 
hisetlorts  to  the  contrary.  Mr.  Adol|)hus  Cros- 
bie,  Secretary  to  the  Board  at  the  General 
Committee  Office,  was  standing  on  the  rug  be- 
fore the  fire. 

"Who  will  be  there?"  Eames  had  asked  of 
his  friend  when  the  suggestion  to  go  and  dine 
with  Dobbs  Broughton  had  been  made  to  him. 

"Impossil)lc  to  say,"  Conway  had  replied. 
"  A  certain  horrible  fellow  of  the  name  of  Mus- 
selboro,  will  almost  certainly  be  tliere.  He  al- 
ways is  when  tliey  have  any  thing  of  a  swell  din- 
ner-party, lie  is  a  sort  of  partner  of  Brough- 
ton's  in  tlie  city.  lie  wears  a  lot  of  cliains,  and 
has  elaborate  whiskers,  and  an  elaborate  waist- 
coat, whicli  is  worse ;  and  he  doesn't  w^ash  his 
hands  as  often  as  he  ought  to  do." 

"An  objectionable  party,  rather,  I  should 
say,"  said  Eames. 

"Well,  yes;  Musselboro  is  objectionable. 
He's  very  good-humored,  you  know,  and  good- 
looking  in  a  sort  of  way,  and  goes  every  where  ; 
that  is  among  people  of  this  sort.  Of  course 
he's  not  hand-and-glove  with  Lord  Derby  ;  and 
I  wish  he  could  be  made  to  wash  his  hands. 
They  haven't  any  other  standing  dish,  and  you 
may  meet  any  body.  Tlie}'  always  have  a  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament;  tliey  generally  manage  to 
catch  a  baronet;  and  I  have  met  a  Peer  there. 
On  that  august  occasion  Musselboro  was  absent." 

So  instructed,  Eames,  on  entering  the  room, 
looked  round  at  once  for  Mr.  INIusselboro.  "If 
I  don't  see  the  whiskers  and  cliain,"  he  had 
said,  "I  shall  know  there's  a  peer."  Mr.  Mus- 
selboro was  in  the  room,  but  Eames  had  descried 
INIr.  Crosbie  long  before  he  had  seen  INIr.  Mus- 
selboro. 

There  was  no  reason  for  confusion  on  his  part 
in  meeting  Crosbie.  They  had  both  loved  Lily 
Dale.  Crosbie  might  have  been  successful  but 
f  jr  his  own  fault.  Eames  had  on  one  occasion 
been  thrown  into  contact  with  him,  and  on  that 
occasion  had  quarreled  with  him  and  had  beat- 
en him,  giving  him  a  black  eye,  and  in  this 
way  obtaining  some  mastery  over  him.  There 
^^■as  no  reason  why  he  should  bo  ashamed  of 
meeting  Crosbie;  and  yet,  when  he  saw  him, 
the  blood  mounted  all  over  his  face,  and  he  for- 
got to  make  any  further  search  for  Mr.  Mussel- 
boro. 


"I  am  so  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Dalrymplo 
for  bringing  you,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton, 
very  sweetly,  "  only  he  ought  to  have  come  soon- 
er. Naughty  man!  I  know  it  was  his  fault. 
Will  you  take  Miss  Demolines  down?  JMiss 
Demolines — Mr.  Eames." 

Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  somewhat  sulky, 
and  had  not  welcomed  our  hero  very  cordially. 
lie  was  beginning  to  think  that  Conway  Dal- 
rymple  gave  liimself  airs,  and  did  not  sufficiently 
understand  thatu  man  who  had  horses  at  Mark- 
et llarboro'  and  '41  Lafitte  was  at  any  rate  as 
good  as  a  painter  who  was  pelted  with  gilt  sugar- 
plums for  painting  countesses.  But  he  was  a 
man  whose  ill-humor  never  lasted  long,  and  he 
was  soon  pressing  his  wine  on  Johnny  Eames 
as  though  he  loved  him  dearlv. 

But  there  w-as  yet  a  few  minutes  before  they 
went  down  to  dinner,  and  Johnny  Eames,  as  he 
endeavored  to  find  something  to  say  to  Miss 
Demolines — which  was  difficidt,  as  he  did  not 
in  the  least  know  Miss  Demolines's  line  of  con- 
versation— was  aware  that  his  effiarts  were  im- 
peded by  thoughts  of  Mr.  Crosbie.  The  man 
looked  older  than  when  he  had  last  seen  him — • 
so  much  older  that  Eames  was  astonished.  He 
was  bald,  or  becoming  bald  ;  and  his  whiskers 
were  gray,  or  were  becoming  gray,  and  he  was 
much  fatter.  Johnny  Eames,  who  was  always 
thinking  of  Lih^  Dale,  could  not  now  keep  him- 
self from  thinking  of  Adoli)lius  Crosbie.  He 
saw  at  a  glance  that  the  man  was  in  mourning, 
though  there  was  nothing  but  his  shirt-studs  by 
which  to  tell  it ;  and  he  knew  that  he  ^^■as  in 
mourning  for  his  wife.  "I  wish  she  might 
have  lived  forever,"  Johnny  said  to  himself. 

He  had  not  yet  been  definitely  called  upon 
by  the  entrance  of  the  servant  to  offer  his  arm 
to  Miss  Demolines,  when  Crosbie  walked  across 
to  him  from  the  rug  and  addressed  him. 

"  ]Mr.  Eames,"  said  he,  "  it  is  some  time 
since  we  met."  And  he  offered  his  hand  to 
Johnny. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Johnny,  accepting  the  prof- 
fered salutation.  "I  don't  know  exactly  how 
long,  but  ever  so  long." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
shaking  hands  with  you,"  said  Crosbie;  and 
then  he  retired,  as  it  had  become  his  duty  to 
wait  with  his  arm  ready  for  ^Mrs.  Dobbs  Brough- 
ton. Having  married  an  earl's  daughter  he  was 
selected  for  that  honor.  There  was  a  barrister 
in  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  ought 
to  have  known  better.  As  she  professed  to  be 
guided  in  such  matters  by  the  rules  laid  down 
by  the  recognized  authorities,  she  ought  to  have 
been  aware  that  a  man  takes  no  rank  from  his 
wife.  But  she  was  entitled,  I  think,  to  merciful 
consideration  for  her  error.  A  woman  situated 
as  was  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  can  not  altogether 
ignore  these  terril)le  rules.  She  can  not  let  her 
guests  draw  lots  for  precedence.  She  must  se- 
lect some  one  for  the  honor  of  her  own  arm. 
And  amidst  the  intricacies  of  rank  how  is  it  pos- 
sible for  a  woman  to  learn  and  to  rememb^|^ 
every  thing?     If  Providence  would  only  send 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


107 


"l   Ail   VEUY   GLAD   TO   UAVE   TUE   OPPOETCNITY   OF   SUAKING   UAKDS   WITU   YOU." 


Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  a  Peer  for  every  dinner- 
party the  thing  would  go  more  easily ;  but 
what  woman  will  tell  me,  off- hand,  which 
should  go  out  of  a  room  first — a  C.B.,  an  Ad- 
miral of  the  Blue,  the  Dean  of  Barchester,  or 
the  Dean  of  Arches?  Who  is  to  know  who 
was  every  body's  father?  How  am  I  to  re- 
member that  young  Thompson's  progenitor  was 
made  a  baronet  and  not  a  knight  when  he  was 
Lord  Mayor?  Perha])s  ]\Irs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
ought  to  have  known  that  Mr.  Crosbic  could 


have  gained  nothing  by  his  wife's  rank,  and  the 
baiTister  may  be  considered  to  have  been  not 
immoderately  severe  when  he  simply  spoke  of 
her  aftenvard  as  the  silliest  and  most  ignorant 
old  woman  he  had  ever  met  in  his  life.  Eamcs 
with  the  lovely  Miss  Demolines  on  his  arm  was 
the  last  to  move  before  the  hostess.  I\Ir.  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  led  the  way  energetically  with 
old  Lady  Demolines.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  Lady  Demolines,  ns  his  wife  had  told 
him,  because  her  title  marked  her.     Her  bus- 


108 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


band  liail  been  a  jilivsician  in  Paris,  and  liad  been 
knighted  in  conse(iueiK-e  of  some  benefit  sup- 
jiosed  to  Iiave  been  done  to  some  French  scion 
of  royalty,  wlien  siicli  scions  in  France  were 
royal  and  not  imperial.  Lady  Demolincs's  rank 
was  not  much,  certainly  ;  but  it  served  to  mark 
her,  and  was  beneficial. 

As  he  went  down  stairs  Fames  was  still  think- 
ing of  his  meeting  with  Crosbie,  and  had  as  yet 
hardly  said  a  word  to  his  neighbor,  and  his 
neighbor  had  not  said  a  word  to  him.  Now 
Johnny  nnderstood  dinners  quite  well  enough 
to  know  that  in  a  party  of  twelve,  among  wliom 
six  are  ladies,  every  thing  depends  on  your  next 
neighbor,  and  generally  on  the  next  neighbor 
who  specially  belongs  to  you ;  and  as  he  took 
his  seat  he  was  a  little  alarmed  as  to  his  pros- 
]iect  for  the  next  two  hours.  Ou  his  other 
liand  sat  Mrs.  Ponsonby,  the  barrister's  wife, 
and  he  did  not  much  like  the  look  of  IMrs.  Pon- 
sonby. Slie  was  fat,  heavy,  and  good-looking  j 
witli  a  broad  space  between  her  eyes,  and  light, 
smooth  hair :  a  youthful  British  matron  every 
inch  of  her,  of  whom  any  barrister  with  a  young 
family  of  children  might  be  proud.  Now  Miss 
IJemolines,  though  she  was  hardly  to  be  called 
beautiful,  was  at  any  rate  remarkable.  She  had 
large,,  dark,  well-shaped  eyes,  and  very  dark 
hair,  which  she  wore  tangled  about  in  an  ex- 
traordinary manner,  and  she  had  an  expressive 
face — a  face  made  expressive  by  the  owner's 
will.  Such  power  of  expression  is  often  at- 
tained by  dint  of  labor — though  it  never  reaches 
to  the  expression  of  any  thing  in  particular 
She  was  almost  sufiiciently  good-looking  to  be 
justified  in  considering  herself  to  be  a  beauty. 

But  Miss  Demolines,  though  she  had  said 
nothing  as  yet,  knew  her  game  very  well.  A 
lady  can  not  begin  conversation  to  any  good 
purpose  in  the  drawing-room,  when  she  is  seat- 
ed and  the  man  is  standing — nor  can  she  know 
then  how  the  table  may  subsequently  arrange 
itself.  Powder  may  be  wasted,  and  often  is 
wasted,  and  the  spirit  rebels  against  the  neces- 
sity of  commencing  a  second  enterprise.  But 
Miss  13emolines,  when  she  found  herself  seated, 
and  perceived  that  on  the  other  side  of  her  was 
Mr.  Ponsonby,  a  married  man,  commenced  her 
enterprise  at  once,  and  our  friend  John  Fames 
was  immediately  aware  that  he  would  have  no 
difhculty  as  to  conversation. 

"Don't  you  like  winter  dinner-parties  ?"  be- 
gan Miss  Demolines.  This  was  said  just  as 
Johnny  was  taking  his  seat,  and  he  had  time 
to  declare  that  he  liked  dinner-parties  at  all  pe- 
riods of  the  year  if  the  dinner  was  good  and  the 
jieople  pleasant  before  the  host  had  muttered 
something  which  was  intended  to  be  understood 
to  be  a  grace.  "  But  I  mean  especially  in  win- 
ter," continued  ^liss  Demolines.  "  I  don't  think 
daylight  should  ever  be  admitted  at  a  dinner-ta- 
ble ;  and  though  you  may  shut  out  the  daylight, 
you  can't  shut  out  the  heat.  And  then  there 
are  always  so  many  other  things  to  go  to  in  May 
and  June  and  July.  Dinners  should  be  stopped 
by  Act  of  Parliament  for  tliose  three  months. 


I  don't  care  what  people  do  afterward,  because 
we  always  fly  away  on  the  first  of  August." 

"That  is  good-natured  on  your  i)art." 

"  I'm  sure  what  I  say  would  be  for  the  good 
of  society ;  but  at  this  time  of  the  year  a  din- 
ner is  warm  and  comfortable." 

"Very  comfortable,  I  think." 

"And  i)eoi)lc  get  to  know  each  other;"  in 
saying  which  Miss  Demolines  looked  very  pleas- 
antly u\y  into  Johnny's  face. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  that,"  said  he.  "I 
wonder  whether  you  and  I  will  get  to  know  each 
other?" 

"Of  course  wc  shall;  that  is,  if  I'm  worth 
kno\\ing." 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  about  that,  I  should 
say. " 

"Time  alone  can  tell.  But,  Mr.  Fames,  I 
see  that  Mr.  Crosbie  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"Hardly  a  friend." 

"  I  know  very  well  that  men  are  friends  when 
they  step  up  and  shake  hands  with  each  other. 
It  is  the  same  as  when  women  kiss." 

"  When  I  see  women  kiss  I  always  think  that 
there  is  deep  hatred  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"And  there  may  be  deep  hatred  between 
you  and  Mr.  Crosbie  for  any  thing  I  know  to 
the  contrary,"  said  Miss  Demolines. 

"The  very  deepest,"  said  Johnny,  pretending 
to  look  grave. 

"  Ah  !  then  I  know  he  is  your  bosom  friend, 
and  that  you  will  tell  him  any  thing  I  say. 
What  a  strange  history  that  was  of  his  mar- 
riage!" 

"  So  I  have  heard ;  but  he  is  not  quite  Ijosom 
friend  enough  with  me  to  have  told  me  all  the 
particulars.     I  know  tliat  his  wife  is  dead." 

"Dead;  oh  yes;  she  has  been  dead  these 
two  years,  I  should  say." 

"Not  so  long  as  that,  I  should  think." 

"Well — i)erhaps  not.  But  it's  ever  so  long 
ago — quite  long  enough  for  him  to  be  married 
again.     Did  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  her  in  my  life." 

"  I  knew  her — not  well  indeed  ;  but  I  am  in- 
timate with  her  sister.  Lady  Amelia  Gazebee, 
and  I  have  met  her  there.  None  of  that  fam- 
ily have  married  what  j'ou  may  call  well,  And 
now,  Mr.  Fames,  pray  look  at  the  menu  and 
tell  me  what  I  am  to  eat.  Arrange  for  me  a 
little  dinner  of  my  own,  out  of  lii:;  great  bill  of 
fare  provided.  I  always  expect  some  gentleman 
to  do  that  for  me.  Mr.  Crosbie,  you  know,  only 
lived  witli  his  wife  for  one  month." 

"  So  I've  been  told." 

"And  a  terrible  month  they  had  of  it.  I 
used  to  hear  of  it.  IIo  doesn't  look  that  sort 
of  man,  does  he?" 

"Well — no.  I  don't  think  he  does.  But 
what  sort  of  man  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  such  a  regular  Bluebeard  !  Of  course 
you  know  how  he  treated  another  girl  before  he 
married  Lady  Alexandrina.  She  died  of  it — 
with  a  broken  heart ;  absolutely  died  ;  and  there 
he  is,  inditferent  as  possible — and  would  treat 
me  in  the  same  wav  to-morrow  if  I  would  let  him." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


109 


Johnny  Eames,  finding  it  impossible  to  talk 
to  Miss  Demolines  about  Lily  Dale,  took  uptiic 
card  of  the  dinner  and  went  to  work  in  earnest, 
recommending  his  neighbor  what  to  eat  and 
what  to  pass  bJ^  "But  yon've  skipped  tlic 
pate',''  she  said,  with  energy. 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  yon  to  choose  mine  for  me 
instead.  You  are  much  more  fit  to  do  it." 
And  she  did  choose  his  dinner  for  him. 

They  were  sitting  at  a  ronnd  table,  and  in 
order  that  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  sliould  al- 
ternate tlicmselves  properly,  Mr.  Musselboro  was 
opposite  to  the  host.  Next  to  him  on  his  right 
was  old  Mrs.  Van  Sievcr,  the  widow  of  a  Dutch 
merchant,  who  was  very  rich.  She  was  a  ghast- 
ly thing  to  look  at,  as  well  from  the  quantity  as 
from  the  nature  of  the  wiggeries  which  she  wore. 
She  had  not  only  a  false  front,  but  long  false 
curls,  as  to  which  it  can  not  be  conceived  that 
she  would  suppose  that  any  one  would  be  igno- 
rant as  to  their  falseness.  Slie  was  ver}'  thin 
too,  and  very  small,  and  putting  aside  her  wig- 
geries, you  would  think  her  to  be  all  eyes.  She 
was  a  ghastly  old  woman  to  the  sight,  and  not 
altogetlicr  pleasant  in  her  mode  of  talking.  She 
seemed  to  know  Mr.  Musselboro  very  well,  for 
she  called  him  by  his  name  without  any  prefix. 
He  had,  indeed,  begun  life  as  a  clerk  in  her 
husband's  ofiice. 

"  Why  doesn't  What's-his-namc  have  real 
silver  forks?"  she  said  to  him.  Now  Mrs. 
What's-his-narae — Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  wc 
will  call  her — was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of 
Mr.  Musselboro,  between  him  and  Mr.  Crosbie  ; 
and,  so  placed,  Mr.  Musselboro  found  it  rather 
hard  to  answer  the  question,  more  especially  as 
I  he  was  probably  aware  that  other  questions 
would  follow. 

"What's  the  use?"  said  Mr.  Musselboro. 
"Every  body  has  these  plated  things  now. 
What's  the  use  of  a  lot  of  capital  lying  dead  ?" 

"  Ev-cry  body  doesn't.  I  don't.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do,  Musselboro,  that  the  appear- 
ance of  the  thing  goes  for  a  great  deal.  Capi- 
tal isn't  lying  dead  as  long  as  people  know  that 
you've  got  it." 

Before  answering  this  Mr.  Musselboro  was 
driven  to  reflect  that  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
would  probably  hear  his  reply.  "You  won't 
find  that  there  is  any  doubt  on  that  head  in  the 
City  as  to  Broughton,"  he  said. 

"I  sha'n't  ask  in  the  City,  and  if  I  did,  I 
should  not  believe  what  people  told  me.  I  think 
there  are  sillier  folks  in  the  City  than  any  where 
else.  What  did  he  give  for  tliat  picture  up 
stairs  which  the  young  man  painted?" 

"What,  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's  portrait?" 

"You  don't  call  that  a  portrait,  do  you?  I 
mean  the  one  with  the  three  naked  Avomen?" 
Mr.  IMusselboro  glanced  round  with  one  eye, 
and  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  had 
heard  the'qucstion.  But  the  old  woman  was 
determined  to  have  an  answer.  "  How  much 
did  he  give  for  it,  Musselboro?" 

"Six  hundred  pounds,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Musselboro,  looking  straight  before  him  as  he 


answered,  and  pretending  to  treat  the  subject 
with  ])erfect  inditt'ercnce. 

"Did  he  indeed,  now?  Six  hundred  pounds  I 
And  yet  he  hasn't  got  silver  spoons.  How 
things  are  changed !  Tell  me,  Musselboro, 
who  was  that  young  man  who  came  in  with  the 
painter?" 

Mr.  Rrusselboro  turned  round  and  asked  Mrs. 
Broughton.  "A  Mr.  John  Eames,  Mrs.  "Van 
Siever,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  whispering  across 
the  front  of  Mr.  Musselboro.  "He  is  private 
secretary  to  Lord — Lord — Lord — I  forget  who. 
Some  one  of  the  Ministers,  I  know.  And  he 
.had  a  great  fortune  left  him  the  other  day  by 
Lord — Lord — Lord  somebody  else." 

"  All  among  the  lords,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Siever.  Then  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  drew  her- 
self back,  remembering  some  little  attack  which 
had  been  made  on  her  by  Mrs.  Van  Siever  when 
she  herself  had  had  the  real  lord  to  dine  with  her. 

There  was  a  Miss  Van  Siever  there  also,  sit- 
ting between  Crosbie  and  Conway  Dalrymple. 
Conway  Dalrymple  had  been  specially  brought 
there  to  sit  next  to  Miss  Van  Siever.  "  There's 
no  knowing  how  much  she'll  have,"  said  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton,  in  the  warmth  of  lier  friend- 
ship. "But  it's  all  real.  It  is,  indeed.  The 
mother  is  awfully  rich." 

"But  she's  awful  in  another  way,  too,"  said 
Dalrymple. 

"Indeed  she  is,  Conway."  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Brougiiton  had  got  into  a  way  of  calling  her 
young  friend  by  his  Christian  name..-  "All  the 
world  calls  him  Conway,"  she  had  said  to  her 
husband  once  when  her  husband  caught  her 
doing  so.  "  She  is  awful.  Her  husband  made 
the  business  in  the  City,  when  things  were  very 
different  from  what  they  are  now,  and  I  can't 
help  having  her.  She  has  transactions  of  busi- 
ness with  Dobbs.  But  there's  no  mistake  about 
the  money." 

"  She  needn't  leave  it  to  her  daughter,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"But  why  shouldn't  she?  She  has  nobody 
else.  You  might  ofter  to  paint  her,  you  know. 
She'd  make  an  excellent  picture.  So  much 
character.     You  come  and  see  her." 

Conway  Dalrymple  had  expressed  his  willing- 
ness to  meet  Miss  Van  Siever,  saying  something, 
however,  as  to  his  present  position  being  one 
which  did  not  admit  of  any  matrimonial  specu- 
lation. Then  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  had  told 
him,  with  much  seriousness,  that  he  was  alto- 
gether wrong,  and  that  were  he  to  forget  him- 
self, or  commit  himself,  or  misbehave  himself, 
there  must  be  an  end  to  their  pleasant  intimacy. 
In  answer  to  which  Mr.  Dalrymple  had  said 
that  his  Grace  was  surely  of  all  Graces  the  least 
gracious.  And  now  he  had  come  to  meet  Miss 
Varf  Siever,  and  was  seated  next  to  her  at  table. 

Miss  Van  Siever,  who  at  this  time  had  per- 
haps reached  her  twenty-fifth  year,  was  certainly 
a  handsome  young  woman.  She  was  fair  and 
large,  bearing  no  likeness  whatever  to  her  mo- 
ther. Her  features  were  regular,  and  her  full, 
clear  eves  hnd  a  brilliance  of  their  own,  looking 


110 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


at  yoii  always  steadfastly  and  boldly,  though 
very  seldom  j)leasantly.  llcr  mouth  would  have 
been  beautiful  had  it  not  been  too  strong  for 
feminine  beauty.  Her  teeth  were  perfect — too 
perfect — looking  like  miniature  walls  of  carved 
ivory.  She  knew  the  fault  of  this  perfection, 
and  sliuwcd  her  teeth  as  little  as  siie  could.  Her 
nose  and  chin  were  finely  ciiiseled,  and  her 
head  stood  well  upon  her  shoulders.  But  there 
was  something  hard  about  it  all  which  repelled 
you,  Dalrymjile,  when  he  saw  her,  recoiled 
from  her,  not  outwardly,  but  inwardly.  Yes,  she 
was  handsome,  as  may  be  a  horse  or  a  tiger; 
but  there  was  about  her  nothing  of  feminine 
softness.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  think 
of  taking  Clara  Van  Sicver  as  the  model  that 
was  to  sit  before  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He 
certainly  could  make  a  picture  of  her,  as  had 
been  suggested  by  his  friend,  Mrs.  Broughton, 
but  it  must  be  as  Judith  with  the  dissevered 
head,  or  as  Jael  using  her  hammer  over  the 
temple  of  Sisera.  Yes — he  thought  she  Avould 
do  as  Jael ;  and  if  Mrs.  Van  Siever  would  throw 
him  a  sugar-plum — for  he  would  want  the  sugar- 
plum, seeing  that  any  other  result  was  out  of  the 
question — the  thing  might  be  done.  Such  was 
the  idea  of  Mr.  Conway  Dalrymple  respecting 
Miss  Van  Siever — before  he  led  her  down  to 
dinner. 

At  first  he  found  it  hard  to  talk  to  her.  She 
answered  him,  and  not  with  monosyllables.  But 
she  answered  him  without  sympathy  or  apparent 
pleasure  in  talking.  Now  the  young  artist  was 
in  the  habit  of  being  flattered  by  ladies,  and  ex- 
pected to  have  his  small  talk  made  very  easy  for 
him.  He  liked  to  give  himself  little  airs,  and 
was  not  generally  disposed  to  labor  very  hard  at 
the  task  of  making  himself  agreeable. 

"Were  you  ever  painted  yet  ?"  he  asked  her, 
after  they  had  both  been  sitting  silent  for  two 
or  three  minutes. 

"  Was  I  ever — ever  painted  ?     In  what  way  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  rouged,  or  enameled,  or  got 
np  by  Madame  Rachel ;  but  have  you  ever  had 
your  portrait  taken  ?" 

"I  have  been  photographed,  of  course." 

"That's  why  I  asked  you  if  you  had  been 
painted — so  as  to  make  some  little  distinction 
between  the  two.  I  am  a  painter  by  profession, 
and  do  portraits." 

"  So  Mrs.  Broughton  told  me." 

"I  am  not  asking  for  a  job,  you  know." 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  that." 

"But  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
been  sure  to  have  sat  to  somebody." 

"I  never  did.  I  never  thought  of  doing  so. 
One  does  those  things  at  the  instigation  of  one's 
intimate  friends — fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  and 
aunts,  and  the  like." 

"  Or  husbands,  perhaps — or  lovers?" 

"Well,  yes;  my  intimate  friend  is  my  mo- 
ther, and  she  would  never  dream  of  such  a 
thing.     She  hates  pictures." 

"Hates  pictures!" 

"And  especially  portraits.  And  I'm  afraid, 
Mr.  Dalrymple,  she  hates  artists." 


"Good  Heavens!  how  cruel!  I  suppose 
there  is  some  story  attached  to  it.  There  hag 
been  some  fatal  likeness — some  terrible  picture 
— something  in  her  early  days?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Dalrymple.  It 
i&  merely  the  fact  that  her  sympathies  arc  with 
ugly  things  rather  than  with  pretty  things.  I 
think  she  loves  the  mahogany  dinner-table  bet- 
ter than  any  thing  else  in  the  house ;  and  she 
likes  to  have  every  thing  dark,  and  plain,  and 
solid." 

"And  good?" 

"Good  of  its  kind,  certainly." 

"If  every  body  was  like  your  mother,  how 
would  the  artists  live  ?" 

"There  would  be  none." 

"And  the  world,  you  think,  would  be  none 
the  poorer?" 

"  I  did  not  speak  of  myself.  I  think  the 
world  would  be  very  much  the  poorer.  I  am 
very  fond  of  the  ancient  masters,  though  I  do 
not  suppose  that  I  understand  them." 

"They  are  easier  understood  than  the  mod- 
ern, I  can  tell  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  care  for 
modern  pictures?" 

"Not  in  comparison,  certainly.  If  that  is 
uncivil,  you  have  brought  it  on  yourself.  But 
I  do  not  in  truth  mean  any  thing  derogatory  to 
the  painters  of  the  day.  When  their  pictures 
are  old,  they — that  is  the  good  ones  among  them 
— will  be  nice  also." 

"Pictures  are  like  wine,  and  want  age,  you 
think?" 

"Yes,  and  statues  too,  and  buildings  above 
all  things.  The  colors  of  new  paintings  are  so 
glaring,  and  the  faces  are  so  bright  and  self- 
conscious,  that  they  look  to  me  wlien  I  go  to 
the  exhibition  like  colored  prints  in  a  child's 
new  picture  book.  It  is  the  same  thing  with 
buildings.  One  sees  all  the  points,  and  nothing 
is  left  to  the  imagination." 

"  I  find  I  have  come  across  a  real  critic." 

' '  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  I  am  not  a  sham  one ;" 
and  Miss  Van  Siever  as  she  said  this  looked 
very  savage. 

"I  shouldn't  take  you  to  be  a  sham  in  any 
thing." 

"Ah,  that  would  be  saying  a  great  deal  for 
myself.  Who  can  undertake  to  say  that  he  is 
not  a  sham  in  any  thing  ?" 

As  she  said  this  the  ladies  were  getting  up. 
So  Miss  Van  Siever  also  got  up,  and  left  Mr. 
Conway  Dalrymple  to  consider  whether  he  could 
say  or  could  think  of  himself  that  he  was  not  a 
sham  in  any  thing.  As  regarded  Miss  Clara 
Van  Siever,  he  began  to  think  that  he  should  not 
object  to  paint  her  portrait,  even  though  there 
might  be  no  sugar-plum.  He  would  certainly 
do  it  as  Jael ;  and  he  would,  if  he  dared,  insert 
dimly  in  the  back-ground  some  idea  of  the  face 
of  the  mother,  half-appearing,  half-vanishing, 
as  the  spirit  of  the  sacrifice.  He  was -compos- 
ing his  picture  while  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  was 
arranging  himself  and  his  bottles. 

"  Musselboro,"  he  said,  "I'll  come  up  be- 
tween you  and  Crosbie.     Mr.  Eames,  though  I 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Ill 


run  away  from  you,  the  claret  shall  remain  ;  or, 
rather,  it  shall  flow  backward  and  forward  as 
rapidly  as  you  will." 

"  I'll  keep  it  moving,"  said  Johnny. 
"Do ;  there's  a  good  follow.  It's  a  nice  glass 
of  wine,  isn't  it  ?  Old  llamsby,  who  keeps  as 
good  a  stock  of  stuff  as  any  wine-merchant  in 
London,  gave  me  a  hint,  three  or  four  years 
ago,  that  he  had  a  lot  of  tidy  Bordeaux.  It's 
'■41,  you  know.  He  had  ninety  dozen,  and  I 
took  it  all." 

"What  was  the  figure,  Broughton?"  said 
Crosbie,  asking  the  question  which  he  knew  was 
expected. 

"  Well,  I  only  gave  one  hundred  and  four  for 
it  then ;  it's  worth  a  hundred  and  twenty  now. 
I  wouldn't  sell  a  bottle  of  it  for  any  money. 
Come,  Dalrymple,  pass  it  round ;  but  fill  your 
glass  first." 

"Thank  you,  no;  I  don't  like  it.  I'll  drink 
sherry. " 

"  Don't  like  it!"  said  Dobbs  Broughton. 

"It's  strange,  isn't  it?  but  I  don't." 

"  I  thought  you  particularly  told  me  to  drink 
liis  claret  ?"  said  Johnny  to  his  friend  afterward. 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Conwaj'' ;  "  and  wonderfully 
good  wine  it  is.  But  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to 
eat  or  drink  any  thing  in  a  man's  house  when  he 
praises  it  himself  and  tells  me  the  price  of  it." 

"And  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  cut  the  nose 
off  my  own  face,"  said  Johnny. 

Before  they  went  Johnny  Eames  had  been 
specially  invited  to  call  on  Lady  Demolines, 
and  had  said  that  he  would  do  so.  "  We  live 
in  Porchester  Gardens,"  said  Miss  Demolines. 
"Upon  my  word,  I  believe  that  the  farther 
London  stretches  in  that  direction  the  farther 
mamma  will  go.  She  thinks  the  air  so  much 
better.     I  know  it's  a  long  way." 

"Distance  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  Johnny; 
"I  can  always  set  off  overnight." 

Conway  Dalrymple  did  not  get  invited  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  but  before  he  left  the  house 
he  did  say  a  word  or  two  more  to  his  friend 
Mi's.  Broughton  as  to  Clara  Van  Siever.  "  She 
is  a  fine  young  woman,"  he  said  ;  "  she  is  in- 
deed." 

"  You  have  found  it  out,  have  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  found  it  out.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  some  day  she'll  murder  her  husband  or  her 
mother,  or  startle  the  world  by  some  newly-in- 
vented crime ;  but  that  only  makes  her  the  more 
interesting." 

"  And  when  you  add  to  that  all  the  old  wo- 
man's money,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton, 
"you  think  that  she  might  do  ?" 

"For  a  picture,  certainly.  I'm  speaking  of 
her  simply  as  a  model.  Could  we 'not  manage 
it?  Get  her  once  here  without  her  mother 
knowing  it,  or  Broughton,  or  any  one.  I've 
got  the  subject — Jael  and  Sisera,  you  know.  I 
should  like  to  put  Musselboro  in  as  Sisera,  with 
the  nail  half  driven  in."  Mrs.  Dobbs  Brough- 
ton declared  that  the  scheme  was  a  great  deal 
too  wicked  for  her  participation,  but  at  last  she 
promised  to  think  of  it. 


"You  might  as  well  come  up  and  Iiave  a  ci- 
gar," Dalrymple  said,  as  he  and  his  friend  left 
Mr.  Broughton's  house.  Johnny  said  that  he 
would  go  up  and  have  a  cigar  or  two.  "And 
now  tell  me  what  you  think  of  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  and  her  set,"  said  Conway. 

"  Well ;  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  of  them, 
I  think  they  stink  of  money,  as  the  people  say ; 
but  I'm  not  sure  that  they've  got  any  all  tlie 
same." 

"I  should  suppose  he  makes  a  large  income." 

"  Very  likely,  and  perhaps  spends  more  than 
he  makes.  A  good  deal  of  it  looked  to  me  like 
make-believe.  There's  no  doubt  about  the  clar- 
et, but  the  Champagne  was  execrable.  A  man 
is  a  criminal  to  have  such  stuff  handed  round 
to  his  guests.  And  there  isn't  the  ring  of  real 
gold  about  the  house." 

"I  hate  the  ring  of  the  gold,  as  you  call  it," 
said  the  artist. 

"  So  do  I — I  hate  it  like  poison ;  but  if  it 
is  there,  I  like  it  to  be  true.  There  is  a  sort  of 
persons  going  now — and  one  meets  them  out 
here  and  there  every  day  of  one's  life — who  are 
downright  Brummagem  to  the  ear  and  to  the 
touch  and  to  the  sight,  and  we  recognize  them 
as  such  at  the  very  first  moment.  My  honored 
lord  and  master.  Sir  Raffle,  is  one  such.  There 
is  no  mistaking  him.  Clap  him  down  upon 
the  counter,  and  he  rings  dull  and  untrue  at 
once.  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Conway,  if  I  say 
the  same  of  your  excellent  friend,  ^Ir.  Dobbs 
Broughton." 

"  I  think  you  go  a  little  too  far,  but  I  don't 
deny  it.  What  you  mean  is,  that  he's  not  a 
gentleman." 

"  I  mean  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  Bless 
you,  when  you  come  to  talk  of  a  gentleman, 
who  is  to  define  the  word?  How  do  I  knov/ 
whether  or  no  I'm  a  gentleman  myself.  When 
I  used  to  be  in  Burton  Crescent  I  was  hardly  a 
gentleman  then — sitting  at  the  same  table  with 
Mrs.  Roper  and  the  Lupexes — do  you  remem- 
ber them,  and  the  lovely  Amelia?" 

"I  suppose  you  were  a  gentleman  then,  as 
well  as  now." 

"  You,  if  you  had  been  painting  duchesses 
then,  with  a  studio  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
would  not  have  said  so  if  you  had  happened  to 
come  across  me.  I  can't  define  a  gentleman, 
even  in  my  own  mind  ;  but  I  can  define  the  sort 
of  man  with  whom  I  think  I  can  live  pleas- 
antly." ' 

"And  poor  Dobbs  doesn't  come  within  the 
line?" 

"N — o,  not  quite;  a  very  nice  fellow,  I'm 
quite  sure,  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  taking  me  there." 

"I  never  will  take  you  to  any  house  again. 
And  what  did  you  think  of  his  wife  ?" 

"  That's  a  horse  of  another  color  altogether. 
A  pretty  woman,  with  such  a  figure  as  hers,  has 
got  a  right  to  be  any  thing  she  pleases.  I  see 
you  are  a  great  favorite." 

"  No,  I'm  not ;  not  especially.  I  do  like  her. 
She  wants  to  make  up  a  match  between  me  and 


112 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


that  Miss  Van  Sicver.  Miss  Vnn  is  to  have 
goUl  by  the  ingot,  and  jewels  bv  the  bushel,  anJ 
a  hatful  of  bank  sliares,  and  a  whole  mine  in 
Cornwall  for  her  fortune." 

"And  is  very  handsome  into  the  bargain." 

"  Yes ;  she's  handsome." 

"  So  is  her  mother,"  said  Johnny.  "  If  you 
take  the  daughter,  I'll  take  the  mother,  and  see 
if  I  can't  do  you  out  of  a  mine  or  two.  Good- 
night, old  fellow!  I'm  only  joking  about  old 
Dobbs.  I'll  go  and  dine  there  again  to-mor- 
row, if  von  like  it." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MISS   MADALINA    DEMOLIXES. 

"I  bon't  think  yon  care  two  straws  about  her," 
Conway  Dalrymple  said  to  his  friend  John 
Earacs,  two  days  after  the  dinner-part}'  at  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton's.  The  painter  was  at  work 
in  his  stndio,  and  the  private  secretary  from 
tiie  Income-tax  Office,  who  was  no  doubt  en- 
gaged on  some  special  mission  to  the  West  End 
on  the  part  of  Sir  Raffle  Buffle,  was  sitting  in  a 
lounging-chair  and  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  Because  I  don't  go  about  with  my  stockings 
cross-gartered,  and  do  that  kind  of  business?" 

"Well,  yes;  because  you  don't  do  that  kind 
of  business,  more  or  less." 

"  It  isn't  in  my  line,  my  dear  fellow.  I  know 
what  you  mean  very  well.  I  dare  say,  artistic- 
ally speaking — " 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Johnny." 

"  Well  then,  poetically,  or  romantically,  if 
you  like  that  better — I  dare  say  that  poetically 
or  romantically  I  am  deficient.  I  eat  my  din- 
ner very  well,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  do 
that;  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  I  find  myself 
laughing  sometimes." 


"  I  never  knew  a  man  who  laughed  so  much. 
You're  always  laughing." 

"  And  that,  you  think,  is  a  bad  sign?'' 

"  I  don't  believe  you  really  care  about  her.  I 
think  you  are  aware  that  yon  have  got  a  love- 
afVair  on  liand,  and  that  you  hang  on  tn  it  rather 
persistently,  having  in  some  way  come  to  a  reso- 
lution that  yon  would  be  i)ersistent.  But  there 
isn't  much  heart  in  it.  I  dare  say  tliere  was 
once." 

"And  that  is  your  ojiinion." 

"You  are  just  like  some  of  those  men  who 
for  years  past  have  been  going  to  write  a  book 
on  some  new  subject.  The  intention  has  been 
sincere  at  first,  and  it  never  altogether  dies 
away.  But  the  would-be  author,  though  he 
still  talks  of  his  work,  knows  that  it  will  never 
be  executed,  and  is  very  patient  under  the  dis- 
:i]ipoiutmeiit.  All  enthusiasm  about  the  thing 
is  gone,  but  he  is  still  known  as  the  man  who 
is  going  to  do  it  some  day.  You  are  the  man 
Avho  means  to  marry  Miss  Dale  in  five,  ten,  or 
twenty  years'  time." 

"  Now,  Conway,  all  that  is  thoroughly  unfair. 
The  would-be  author  talks  of  his  would-be  book 
to  every  body.  I  have  never  talked  of  3.1iss 
Dale  to  any  one  but  you  and  one  or  two  very 
old  family  friends.  And  from  year  to  year, 
and  from  month  to  month,  I  have  done  all  that 
has  been  in  my  power  to  win  her.  I  don't  think 
I  sliall  ever  succeed,  and  yet  I  am  as  determined 
about  it  as  I  was  when  I  first  began  it — or  rath- 
er much  more  so.  If  I  do  not  marry  Lily  I 
shall  never  marry  at  all,  and  if  any  body  were 
to  tell  mc  to-morrow  that  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  have  mo  I  should  well-nigh  go  mad  for 
joy.  But  I  am  not  going  to  give  up  all  my  life 
for  love.  Indeed,  the  less  I  can  bring  myself  to 
give  up  for  it  the  better  I  shall  think  of  myself. 
Now  I'll  go  away  and  call  on  old  Lady  Demo- 
lines." 

"And  fiirt  with  her  daughter." 

"  Yes ;  fiirt  with  her  daughter,  if  I  get  the 
opportunity.  Why  shouldn't  I  fiirt  with  her 
daughter?" 

"Why  not,  if  you  like  it?" 

"I  don't  like  it — not  particularly,  that  is; 
because  the  young  lady  is  not  very  pretty,  nor 
yet  very  graceful,  nor  yet  very  wise." 

"  She  is  pretty  after  a  fashion,"  said  the  art- 
ist, "and  if  not  wise,  she  is  at  any  rate  clever." 

"Nevertheless  I  do  not  like  her,"  said  John 
Eames. 

"Then  why  do  you  go  there?" 

"One  has  to  be  civil  to  peo])lc  though  they 
are  neitlier  ]n'ctty  nor  wise.  I  don't  mean  to 
insinuate  that  Miss  Demolines  is  particularly 
bad,  or  indeed  that  she  is  worse  than  young  la- 
dies in  general.  I  only  abused  her  because 
there  was  an  insinuation  in  what  you  said,  that 
I  was  going  to  amuse  myself  with  Miss  Demo- 
lines in  the  absence  of  Miss  Dale.  The  one 
tiling  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  other  thing. 
Nothing  that  I  shall  say  to  Miss  Demolines  will 
at  all  militate  against  my  loyalty  to  Lily." 

"All  right,  old  fellow — I  didn't  mean  to  put 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


113 


you  on  your  purgation.  I  want  you  to  look  at 
that  sketch.  Do  you  know  for  whom  it  is  in- 
tended?" Johnny  took  up  a  scrap  of  paper, 
and  having  scrutinized  it  for  a  minute  or  two 
declared  that  he  had  not  the  sliglitest  idea  who 
was  represented.  "  You  know  the  suhject — tlie 
story  that  is  intended  to  be  told  ?"  said  Dai- 
ry m  pie. 

"  Upon  my  word  I  don't.  There's  some  old 
fellow  seems  to  he  catching  it  over  the  head ; 
but  it's  all  so  confused  I  can't  make  much  of  it. 
The  woman  seems  to  be  uncommon  angry." 

"  Do  you  ever  read  your  Bible  ?" 

"Ah,  dear!  not  as  often  as  I  ought  to  do. 
Ah,  I  see  ;  it's  Sisfera.  I  never  could  quite  be- 
lieve tliat  story.  Jael  might  have  killed  Cap- 
tain Sisera  in  his  sleep — for  wliich,  by-the-by, 
she  ought  to  have  been  hung,  and  she  might 
possibly  have  done  it  with  a  hammer  and  a 
nail.  But  she  could  not  have  driven  it  through, 
and  staked  him  to  tlie  ground." 

"I've  warrant  enough  for  putting  it  into  a 
picture,  at  any  rate.  Bly  Jael  there  is  intend- 
ed for  Miss  Van  Sicver." 

"^Ijss  Van  Siever!  Well,  it  is  like  her. 
Has  .she  sat  for  it?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no  ;  not  yet.  I  mean  to  get  her 
to  do  so.  There's  a  strength  about  her  which 
would  make  her  sit  the  part  admirably.  And 
I  fancy  she  would  like  to  be  driving  a  nail  into 
a  fellow's  head.  I  think  I  shall  take  Mussel- 
boro  for  a  Sisera." 

"You're  not  in  earnest?" 

"  He  would  .just  do  for  it.  But  of  course  I 
sha'n't  ask  him  to  sit,  as  my  Jael  would  not  like 
it.  She  would  not  consent  to  operate  on  so 
base  a  subject.  So  you  really  are  going  down 
to  Guestwick?" 

' '  Yes ;  I  start  to-morrow.  Good-by,  old  fel- 
low !  I'll  come  and  sit  for  Sisera  if  you'll  let 
me ;  only  Miss  Van  Jael  shall  have  a  blunted 
nail,  if  you  please." 

Then  Johnny  left  the  artist's  room  and  walk- 
ed across  from  Kensington  to  Lady  Demolines's 
house.  As  he  went  he  partly  accused  himself 
and  partly  excused  himself  in  that  matter  of 
his  love  for  Lily  Dale.  There  were  moments  of 
his  life  in  which  he  felt  that  he  would  willingly 
die  for  her — that  life  was  not  worth  having 
witliout  her — in  which  he  went  about  inwardly 
reproaching  fortune  for  having  treated  him  so 
cruelly.  Why  should  she  not  be  his?  He 
half  believed  that  she  loved  liim.  She  had  al- 
most told  him  so.  She  could  not  surely  still 
love  that  other  man  who  had  treated  her  with 
such  vile  falsehood?  As  he  considered  the 
question  in  all  its  bearings  he  assured  himself 
over  and  over  again  that  there  would  be  now 
no  fear  of  that  rival ;  and  yet  he  had  such 
fears,  and  hated  Crosbie  almost  as  much  as 
ever.  It  was  a  thousand  pities,  certainly,  that 
the  man  should  have  been  made  free  by  the 
death  of  his  wife.  But  it  could  hardly  be  that 
he  should  seek  Lily  again,  or  that  Lily,  if  so 
sought,  should  even  listen  to  him.  But  yet 
there  he  was,  free  once  more — an  odious  being. 


whom  Johnny  was  determined  to  sacrifice  to 
his  vengeance  if  cause  for  such  sacrilice  should 
occur.  And  thus  thinking  of  the  real  truth  of 
his  love,  he  endeavored  to  excuse  himself  to 
himself  from  that  clu\rge  of  vagueness  and  lax- 
ness  which  his  friend  Conway  Dalrymple  had 
brouglit  against  him.  And  then  again  he  ac- 
cused himself  of  the  same  sin.  If  he  had  been 
positively  in  earnest,  with  do^\Tlright  manly 
earnestness,  would  he  have  allowed  the  thing 
to  drag  itself  on  with  a  weak  uncertain  life,  as 
it  had  done  for  the  last  two  or  three  years? 
Lily  Dale  had  been  a  dream  to  him  in  his  boy- 
hood ;  and  lie  had  made  a  reality  of  liis  dream 
as  soon  as  he  had  become  a  man.  But  before 
he  had  been  al)le,  as  a  man,  to  tell  his  love  to 
the  girl  whom  he  had  loved  as  a  child,  another 
man  had  intervened,  and  his  prize  had  been 
taken  from  him.  Then  the  wretched  victor 
had  tlirown  his  treasure  away,  and  he,  John 
Eames,  had  been  content  to  stoop  to  pick  it  up 
— was  content  to  do  so  now.  But  there  was 
sometiiing  wliich  he  felt  to  be  unmanly  in  the 
constant  stooping.  DaliTm])le  had  told  him 
that  he  was  like  a  man  who  is  ever  writing  a 
book  and  yet  never  writes  it.  He  would  make 
another  attempt  to  get  Iws  book  written — an  at- 
tempt into  which  he  would  throw  all  his  strength 
and  all  his  heart.  He  would  do.  his  very  best 
to  make  Lily  las  own.  But  if  he  failed  now, 
he  would  have  done  with  it.  It  seemed  to  him 
to  be  below  his  dignity  as  a  man  to  be  always 
coveting  a  tiling  which  he  could  not^obtain. 

Johnny  was  informed  by  the  boy  in  buttons, 
who  opened  the  door  for  him  at  Lady  Demo- 
lines,  that  the  ladies  were  at  home,  and  he  was 
shown  up  into  the  drawing-room.  Here  he 
was  allowed  full  ten  minutes  to  explore  tlic 
nick-nacks  on  the  table,  and  open  the  photo- 
graph book,  and  examine  the  furniture,  before 
Miss  Demolines  made  her  appearance.  When 
she  did  come,  her  hair  was  tangled  more  mar- 
velously  even  than  when  he  saw  her  at  the  din- 
ner-party, and  her  eyes  were  darker,  and  her 
cheeks  tliiimcr.  "I'm  afraid  mamma  won't 
be  able  to  come  down,"  said  Miss  Demolines. 
"She  will  be  so  sorry;  but  she  is  not  quite 
well  to-day.  The  wind  is  in  the  east,  she  says, 
and  when  she  says  the  wind  is  in  the  east  she 
always  refuses  to  be  well." 

"Then  I  should  tell  her  it  was  in  the  west." 

"But  it  is  in  the  east." 

"Ah!  there  I  can't  help  you.  Miss  Demo- 
lines. I  never  know  which  is  east  and  which 
west ;  and  if  I  did,  I  shouldn't  know  from  which 
point  the  wind  blew." 

"At  any  rate,  mamma  can't  come  down 
stairs,  and  you  must  excuse  her.  What  a  very 
nice  woman  INIrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  is  !"  John- 
ny acknowledged  that  ]Mrs.  I)obbs  Broughton 
was  charming.  "And  Mr.  Broughton  is  so 
good-natured!"  Johnny  again  assented.  "I 
like  him  of  all  things,"  said  Miss  Demolines. 
"  So  do  I,"  said  Johnny ;  "  I  never  liked  any 
body  so  much  in  my  life.  I  suppose  one  is 
bound  to  sav  tliat  kind  of  thing."     "Oh!  vou 


114 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ill-natnvod  mnn,"  said  Miss  Deniolincs.  "I 
PU})iiosc  you  tliiiik  tliut  i)oor  Mr.  15rou{:;liton  is 
a  little — ^jiist  a  little — you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Yes,  you  do ;  you  know  very  well  what  I 
mean.  And  of  course  he  is.  IIow  can  he 
he)])  it?" 

"  I'oor  fellow !  No.  I  don't  suppose  he  can 
help  it,  or  he  would  ;  wouldn't  he  ?" 

"Of  course  Mr.  15rouj:;liton  had  not  the  ad- 
vantage of  birth  or  much  early  education.  All 
liis  friends  know  that,  and  make  allowance  ac- 
cordingly. When  she  married  him  she  was 
aware  of  his  deficiency,  and  made  up  her  mind 
to  put  up  with  it." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  her;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  knew  Maria  Cluttcrbuck  for  years  before 
she  was  married.  Of  course  slic  was  very  much 
my  senior,  but,  nevertheless,  we  were  friends. 
I  think  I  was  hardly  more  than  twelve  years 
old  when  I  first  began  to  correspond  with  ]\Iaria. 
She  was  then  past  twenty.  So  you  see,  Mr. 
Eames,  I  make  no  secret  of  my  age." 

"  Why  should  yon  ?" 

"But  never  mind  that.  Every  body  knows 
that  Maria  Clutterbuck  was  very  much  ad- 
mired. Of  course  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  or 
any  other  gentleman  all  her  histor}'." 

"I  was  in  hopes  you  were." 

"Then  certainly  your  hopes  will  be  frus- 
trated, Mr.  Eames.  But  undoubtedly  when 
she  told  us  that  she  was  going  to  take  Dobbs 
Broughton,  we  were  a  little  disappointed.  Maria 
Clutterbuck  had  been  used  to  a  better  kind  of 
life.  You  understand  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Eames  ?" 

"Oh,  exactly;  and  yet  it's  not  a  bad  kind 
of  life  either." 

"No,  no;  that  is  true.  It  has  its  attrac- 
tions. She  keeps  her  carriage,  sees  a  good  deal 
of  company,  has  an  excellent  house,  and  goes 
abroad  for  six  weeks  every  year.  But  you 
know,  Mr.  Eames,  there  is,  perhaps,  a  little  un- 
certainty about  it." 

"Life  is  always  uncertain,  Miss  Demolines." 

"You're  quizzing  now,  I  know.  But  don't 
you  feel  now,  really,  that  City  money  is  always 
very  chancy?     It  comes  and  goes  so  quick." 

"  As  regards  the  going,  I  think  that's  the 
same  witli  all  money,"  said  Johnny. 

"Not  with  land,  or  the  funds.  Mamma  has 
every  shilling  laid  out  in  a  first-class  mortgage 
on  land  at  four  per  cent.  That  does  make  one 
feel  so  secure  !     The  land  can't  run  away." 

"But  you  think  poor  Broughton's  money 
may  ?" 

"  It's  all  speculation,  you  know.  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  minds  it ;  I  don't,  indeed.  She  lives 
that  kind  of  fevered  life  now  that  she  likes  ex- 
citement. Of  course  we  all  know  that  Mr. 
Dobbs  Broughton  is  not  what  we  can  call  an 
educated  gentleman.  His  manners  are  against 
him,  and  he  is  very  ignorant.  Even  dear  Maria 
would  admit  that." 

"One  would  perhaps  let  that  pass  without 
asking  her  opinion  at  all." 

"  She   has   acknowledged   it   to  me  twenty 


times.  But  lie  is  very  good-natured,  and  lets 
her  do  pretty  nearly  any  thing  that  she  likes. 
I  only  hope  she  won't  trespass  on  his  good-na- 
ture.    I  do,  indeed." 

"You  mean  spend  too  much  money?" 

"  No ;  I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  Of  course 
she  ought  to  be  moderate,  and  I  hope  she  is. 
To  that  kind  of  fevered  existence  j^rofuso  ex- 
penditure is  perhaps  necessary.  But  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else.  I  fear  she  is  a 
little  giddy." 

"Dear  me!  I  should  have  thought  she  was 
too — too — too — " 

"  You  mean  too  old  for  any  thing  of  that  kind. 
Maria  Broughton  must  be  thirty-three  if  she's  a 
day." 

"  That  would  make  j'ou  just  twenty-five," 
said  Johnny,  feeling  perfectly  sure  as  he  said  so 
ihat  the  lady  whom  he  was  addressing  was  at 
any  rate  past  thirty ! 

"Never  mind  my  age,  Mr.  Eames;  whether 
I  am  twenty-five,  or  a  hundred  and  five,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  poor  Maria  Clutterbuck. 
But  now  I'll  tell  you  why  I  mention  all  this 
to  you.  You  must  have  seen  how  foolish  she  is 
about  your  friend  Mr.  Dalrymple." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  haven't." 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Eames ;  you  have.  If  she 
were  your  wife,  would  you  like  her  to  call  a  man 
Conway  ?  Of  course  you  would  not.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  there's  any  thing  in  it.  I  know 
Maria's  principles  too  well  to  suspect  that.  It's 
merely  because  she's  flighty  and  fevered." 

"That  fevered  existence  accounts  for  it  all," 
said  Johnny. 

"  No  doubt  it  does,"  said  Miss  Demolines, 
with  a  nod  of  her  head,  which  was  intended  to 
show  that  she  was  willing  to  give  her  friend  the 
full  benefit  of  any  excuse  which  could  be  oft'ered 
for  her.  "But  don't  you  think  you  could  do 
something,  Mr.  Eames?" 

"  I  do  something?" 

"  Yes,  you.  You  and  Mr.  Dalrymple  are  such 
friends !  If  you  were  just  to  point  out  to  him, 
you  know — " 

"  Point  out  what  ?  Tell  him  that  he  oughtn't 
to  be  called  Conway?  Because,  after  all,  I 
suppose  that's  the  worst  of  it.  If  you  mean  to 
say  that  Dalrymple  is*  in  love  with  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton, vou  never  made  a  greater  mistake  in  your 
life.'' 

"  Oh  no;  not  in  love.  That  would  be  terri- 
ble, you  know."  And  Miss  Demolines  shook 
her  head  sadly.  "But  there  may  be  so  much 
mischief  done  without  any  thing  of  that  kind ! 
Thoughtlessness,  you  know,  Mr.  Eames — ])ure 
thoughtlessness!  Think  of  what  I  have  said, 
and  if  you  can  speak  a  word  to  your  friend,  do.  i 
And  now  I  want  to  ask  you  something  else. 
I'm  so  glad  you  are  come,  because  circumstances 
have  seemed  to  make  it  necessary  that  j-ou  and 
I  should  know  each  other.  We  may  be  of  so 
much  use  if  we  put  our  heads  together."  John- 
ny bowed  when  he  heard  this,  but  made  no  im- 
mediate reply.  "Have  you  heard  any  thing 
about  a  certain  picture  that  is  being  planned  ?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


115 


Johnny  did  not  wish  to  answer  this  question, 
but  Miss  Demolincs  paused  so  long  and  looked 
so  earnestly  into  his  face  that  he  found  Ijimsclf 
forced  to  say  sometliing. 

"What  picture?" 

"A  certain  picture  that  is — or,  perhaps,  that 
is  not  to  be,  painted  by  Mr.  Dalrymple?" 

♦'  I  hear  so  much  about  Dalrymple's  pictures ! 
You  don't  mean  the  portrait  of  Lady  Glencora 
Palliser  ?  That  is  nearly  finished,  and  will  be 
in  the  Exhibition  this  year." 

'*  I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  I  mean  a  picture 
that  has  not  yet  been  begun." 

"A  portrait,  I  suppose?" 

"As  to  that  I  can  not  quite  say.  It  is  at  any 
rate  to  be  a  likeness.  I  am  sure  you  have  heard 
of  it.  Come,  Mr.  Eames ;  it  would  be  better 
that  we  should  be  candid  with  each  other.  You 
remember  Miss  Van  Siever,  of  course  ?" 

"I  remember  that  she  dined  at  the  Brough- 
tons'." 

"And  you  have  heard  of  Jael,  I  suppose,  and 
Sisera?" 

"  Yes  ;  in  a  general  way — in  the  Bible." 

"And  now  will  you  tell  me  whether  you  have 
not  heard  the  names  of  Jael  and  Miss  Van  Sie- 
ver coupled  together  ?  I  see  you  know  all  about 
it." 

"  I  have  heard  of  it,  certainly." 

"Of  course  you  have.  So  have  I,  as  you 
perceive.  Now,  Mr.  Eames" — and  Miss  Dcmo- 
lines's  voice  became  tremulously  eager  as  she  ad- 
dressed him — "it  is  your  duty,  and  it  is  my 
duty,  to  take  care  that  that  picture  shall  never 
be  painted." 

"But  why  should  it  not  be  painted?" 

"You  don't  know  Miss  Van  Siever  yet."' 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Nor  Mrs.  Van  Siever." 

"  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  her." 

"I  do.  I  know  them  both — well."  There 
was  something  almost  grandly  tragic  in  Miss 
Demolines's  voice  as  she  thus  spoke.  "Yes, 
Mr.  Eames,  I  know  them  well.  If  that  scheme 
be  continued,  it  will  work  terrible  mischief. 
You  and  I  must  prevent  it." 

"But  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  will  do." 

"Think  of  Conway  Dalrymple  passing  so 
many  hours  in  Maria's  sitting-room  up  stairs! 
The  picture  is  to  be  painted  there,  you  know." 

"  But  Miss  Van  Siever  will  be  present.  Won't 
that  make  it  all  right?  What  is  there  wrong 
about  Miss  Van  Siever  ?" 

"  I  won't  deny  that  Clara  Van  Siever  has  a 
certain  beauty  of  her  own.  To  me  she  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  unattractive  woman  that  I  ever 
came  near.  She  is  simply  repulsive!"  Here- 
upon Miss  Demolines  held  up  her  hand  as  though 
she  were  banishing  Miss  Van  Siever  forever 
from  her  sight,  and  shuddered  slightly.  "  Men 
think  her  handsome,  and  she  is  handsome.  But 
she  is  false,  covetous,  malicious,  cruel,  and  dis- 
honest." 

"What  a  fiend  in  petticoats!" 

"You  may  say  that,  Mr.  Eames.  And  then 
her  mother !     Her  mother  is  not  so  bad.     Her 


mother  is  very  different.  But  the  mother  is  an 
odious  woman,  too.  It  was  an  evil  day  for  Ma- 
ria Clntterbuck  when  she  first  saw  either  the 
mother  or  the  daughter.  I  tell  you  that  in  con- 
fidence." 

"But  what  can  I  do?"  said  Johnny,  who  be- 
gan to  be  startled  and  almost  interested  by  the 
eagerness  of  the  woman. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  Don't  let 
your  friend  go  to  Mr.  Broughton's  house  to 
paint  the  picture.  If  he  does  do  it,  there  will 
mischief  come  of  it.  Of  course  you  can  pre- 
vent him." 

"I  should  not  think  of  trying  to  prevent  him 
unless  I  knew  why." 

"  She's  a  nasty  proud  minx,  and  it  would  set 
her  up  ever  so  high — to  think  that  she  was  be- 
ing painted  by  Mr.  Dalrymple !  But  that  isn't 
the  reason.  Maria  would  get  into  terrible  trouble 
about  it,  and  there  would  be  no  end  of  mischief. 
I  must  not  tell  you  more  now,  and  if  you  do 
not  believe  me  I  can  not  help  it.  Surely,  Mr. 
Eames,  my  word  may  be  taken  as  going  for  some- 
thing? And  when  I  ask  you  to  help  me  in  this 
I  do  expect  that  you  will  not  refuse  me."  By  this 
time  Miss  Demolines  was  sitting  close  to  him, 
and  had  more  than  once  put  her  hand  upon  his 
arm  in  the  energy  of  her  eloquence.  Then  as  he 
remembered  that  he  had  never  seen  Miss  Demo- 
lines till  the  other  day,  or  Miss  Van  Siever,  or 
even  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  he  bethought  him- 
self that  it  was  all  very  droll.  Nevertheless  he 
had  no  objection  to  Miss  Demolines  putting  her 
hajid  upon  his  arm. 

"I  never  like  to  interfere  in  any  thing  that 
does  not  seem  to  be  my  own  business,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Is  not  your  friend's  business  your  own  bus- 
iness? What  does  friendship  mean  if  it  is  not 
so  ?  And  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  my  business, 
mine  of  right,  does  that  go  for  nothing  with  you  ? 
I  thought  I  might  depend  upon  you,  IVIr.  Eames; 
I  did  indeed."  Then  again  she  put  her  hand 
upon  his  ami,  and  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes  he 
began  to  think  that  after  all  she  was  good-look- 
ing in  a  certain  way.  At  any  rate  she  had  fine 
eyes,  and  there  was  something  picturesque  about 
the  entanglement  of  her  hair.  "Think  of  it, 
and  then  come  back  and  talk  to  me  again,"  said 
Miss  Demolines. 

"But  I  am  going  out  of  town  to-morrow." 

' '  For  how  long  ?" 

"For  ten  days." 

"Nothing  can  be  done  during  that  time. 
Clara  Van  Siever  is  going  away  in  a  day,  and 
will  not  be  back  for  three  weeks.  I  happen  to 
know  that ;  so  we  have  plenty  of  time  for  work- 
ing. It  would  be  very  desirable  that  she  should 
never  even  hear  of  it ;  but  that  can  not  be  hoped, 
as  Maria  has  such  a  tongue  !  Couldn't  you  see 
Mr.  Dalrymple  to-night  ?" 

"  Weli,  no;  I  don't  think  I  could." 

"  Mind,  at  least,  that  you  come  to  me  as  soon 
as  ever  you  return." 

Before  he  got  out  of  the  house,  which  he  did 
after  a  most  affectionate  farewell,  Johnny  felt 


IIG 


THE  LAST  CIIKOXICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


himself  coni]iclloil  to  ]:romisc  that  he  would 
come  to  Miss  Deinolincs  again  as  soon  as  he  got 
back  to  town  ;  and  as  the  door  was  closed  he- 
hind  him  by  the  boy  in  buttons  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  ho  certainly  would  call  as  soon  as  he 
returned  to  London.  "It's  as  pood  as  a  play," 
ho  said  to  himself.  Not  that  he  cared  in  the 
least  fur  i\Iiss  Dcmolines,  or  that  he  would  take 
an}'  steps  with  the  intention  of  preventing  the 
painting  of  the  ])icture.  !Miss  Demolines  had 
some  battle  to  fight,  and  he  would  leave  her  to 
fight  it  with  her  own  weapons.  If  his  friend 
chose  to  i)aint  a  jiicture  of  Jacl,  and  take  Miss 
Van  Sicver  as  a  model,  it  was  no  business  of  his. 
Nevertheless  he  would  certainly  go  and  sec  Miss 
Demolines  again,  because,  as  he  said,  she  Avas 
as  good  as  a  phiy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    PICTUEE. 

On  that  same  afternoon  Conway  Dalrym])lc 
rolled  up  his  sketch  of  Jael  and  Sisera,  put  it  into 
his  pocket,  dressed  himself  with  some  consider- 
able care,  putting  on  a  velvet  coat  which  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  wearing  out  of  doors  Avhen  he  did 
not  intend  to  wander  beyond  Kensington  Gar- 
dens and  the  neighborhood,  and  which  was  sup- 
posed to  become  him  well,  yellow  gloves,  and  a 
certain  Spanish  hat  of  which  he  was  fond,  and 
slowly  sauntered  across  to  the  house  of  his  friend 
Mrs.  Djbbs  Brougliton.  When  the  door  was 
opened  to  him  he  did  not  ask  if  the  ladywci'Gat 
liome,  but  muttering  some  word  to  the  servant, 
made  his  way  through  the  hall,  up  stairs,  to  a 
certain  small  sitting-room  looking  to  the  north, 
which  was  much  used  by  the  mistress  of  the 
house.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Conway  Dal- 
rymple  had  arranged  his  visit  beforehand,  and 
that  he  was  expected.  He  opened  the  door 
without  knocking,  and,  though  the  servant  had 
followed  him,  he  entered  without  being  an- 
nounced. "I'm  afraid  I'm  late," he  said,  as  he 
gave  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Broughton  ;  "  but  for  the 
life  I  could  not  get  away  sooner." 

"You  arc  quite  in  time,"  said  tlie  lady,  "for 
any  good  that  you  are  likely  to  do." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"It  means  this,  my  friend,  that  you  had  bet- 
ter give  the  idea  up.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
it  all  day,  and  I  do  not  approve  of  it." 

"What  nonsense !" 

"  Of  course  you  will  say  so,  Conway.  I  have 
obsen'cd  of  late  that  whatever  I  say  to  you  is 
called  nonsense.  I  suppose  it  is  the  new  fashion 
that  gentlemen  should  so  express  themselves,  but 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  like  it." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  am  very  anx- 
ious about  this  picture,  and  I  shall  be  much  dis- 
appointed if  it  can  not  be  done  now.  It  was 
you  put  it  into  my  head  first." 

"I  regret  it  very  much,  I  can  assure  you; 
but  it  will  not  be  generous  in  you  to  urge  that 
against  me." 

"But  whv  shouldn't  it  succeed?" 


"There  are  many  reasons — some  personal  tu 
myself." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  can  be.  You  hint- 
ed at  something  which  I  only  took  as  having 
been  said  in  juke." 

"  If  you  mean  about  Miss  Van  Siever  and 
yourself,  I  was  quite  in  earnest,  Conway.  I  do 
not  think  you  could  do  better,  and  I  sliould  be 
glad  to  see  it  of  all  things.  Nothing  would 
please  me  more  than  to  bring  Miss  Van  Siever 
and  you  together." 

"And  nothing  would  please  me  less." 

"And  why  so  ?" 
J ' '  Because — because —     I  can  do  nothing  but 
t6ll  you  the  truth,  carina  ;  because  my  heart  is 
tiot  free  to  present  itself  at  Miss  Van  Siever's 
feet." 

"It ought  to  be  free,  Conway,  and  you  must 
make  it  free.  It  will  be  well  that  you  should  be 
married,  and  well  for  others  besides  yourself.  I 
tell  you  so  as  your  friend,  and  you  have  no  truer 
friend.  Sit  where  you  are,  if  you  please.  Y'ou 
can  say  any  thing  you  have  to  say  without 
stalking  about  the  room." 

"I  was  not  going  to  stalk— as  you  call  it." 

"  You  will  be  safer  and  quieter  while  you  arc 
sitting.  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  I  do 
not  doubt  that  it  is  Clara.  She  said  she  would 
be  here." 

"  And  yon  have  told  her  of  the  picture  ?" 

"Yes;  I  have  told  her.  She  said  that  it 
would  be  impossible,  and  that  her  mother  would 
not  allow  it.  Here  she  is."  Then  Miss  Van 
Sicver  was  shown  into  the  room,  and  Dalrym- 
ple  perceived  that  she  was  a  girl  the  peculiarity 
of  whose  complexion  bore  daylight  better  even 
than  candle-light.  There  was  something  in 
her  countenance  which  seemed  to  declare  that 
she  could  bear  any  light  to  which  it  might  be 
subjected  Mithout  flinching  from  it.  And  her 
bonnet,  which  was  very  plain,  and  her  simple 
brown  morning-gown  suited  her  well.  She  was 
one  who  required  none  of  the  circumstances  of 
studied  dress  to  carry  oft'  aught  in  her  own  ap- 
pearance. She  could  look  her  best  when  other 
women  look  their  worst,  and  could  dare  to  be 
seen  at  all  times.  Dalrymple,  with  an  artist's 
eye,  saw  this  at  once,  and  immediately  confessed 
to  himself  that  there  was  something  great  about 
her.  He  could  .not  deny  her  beauty.  But 
there  was  ever  present  to  him  that  look  of  hard- 
ness which  had  struck  him  when  he  first  saw 
her.  He  could  not  but  fancy  that  though  at 
times  she  might  be  playful,  and  allow  the  fur  of 
her  coat  to  be  stroked  Avith  good-humor — she 
would  be  a  dangerous  plaything,  using  her 
claws  un])leasantly  when  the  good-humor  should 
have  passed  away.  But  not  the  less  was  she 
beautiful,  and — beyond  that,  and  better  than 
that  for  his  purpose — she  was  picturesque. 

"  Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  "here  is  this 
mad  painter,  and  he  says  that  he  Avill  have  you 
on  his  canvas,  cither  with  your  will  or  without  it."  ] 

"  Even  if  he  could  do  that,  I  am  sure  he 
would  not,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever. 

"To  prove  to  you  that  I  can  I  think  I  need 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


117 


"VVUAT  DO  YOU  THINK  OK  IT,  ME8.  CROUGUTON  ?" 


only  show  you  the  sketch,"  said  Dalrymple,  talc-  I       "  Eames  says  that  it  is  confused,"  said  the 
ing  the  drawing  out  of  his  pocket.      "As  re-    artist. 

gards  the  face,  I  know  it  so  well  by  heart  al-  |       "I  don't  sec  that  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brough- 
ready  that  I  feel  certain  I  could  produce  a  like-  '  ton. 

ness  without  even  a  sitting.     What  do  you  think  j       "  Of  course  a  sketch  must  be  rough.     Tliis 
of  it,  Mrs.  Brouijhton  ?"  i  one  has  been  rubbed  about  and  altered — but  I 

"It  is  clever,"  said  she,  looking  at  it  with  all    think  there  is  something  in  it." 


that  entliusiasm  wliicli  women  are  able  to  throw 
into  their  eyes  on  such  occasions ;  "  very  clever. 
The  subject  would  just  suit  her.  I  have  never 
'doubted  that." 


"  An  immense  deal,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Clara?" 
"  I  am  not  a  judge." 
"But  you  can  see  the  woman's  fixed  purpose; 


118 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


and  hor  stcahhiness  ns  well — and  the  mJn 
sleeps  like  a  log.     What  is  that  dim  outline?" 

"Nothing  in  particular,"  said  Dalryniple. 
Jlnt  flie  dim  outline  •was  intended  to  represent 
Mrs.  Van  Siever. 

"It  is  very  pood — unquestionably  good," said 
Mrs.  Dohhs  IJroughton.  "I  do  not  for  a  mo- 
ment doubt  that  you  would  make  a  great  pic- 
ture of  it  It  is  just  the  subject  for  you,  Con- 
way ;  so  much  imagination,  and  yet  such  a 
scope  for  portraiture.  It  would  be  full  of  ac- 
tion, and  yet  such  perfect  repose  And  the 
lights  and  shadows  would  be  exactly  in  your 
line.  I  can  see  at  a  glance  how  you  would 
manage  the  light  in  the  tent,  and  bring  it  down 
just  on  the  nail.  And  then  the  pose  of  the  wo- 
man would  be  so  good,  so  much  strength  and 
yet  such  grace !  You  should  have  the  bowl  he 
drank  tlie  milk  out  of,  so  as  to  tell  the  whole 
story.  No  painter  living  tells  a  story  so  well  as 
you  do,  Conway."  Conway  Dalrymjde  knew 
that  the  woman  was  talking  nonsense  to  him, 
and  yet  he  liked  it,  and  liked  her  for  talking  it. 

"But  Mr.  Dali'ymi)le  can  paint  his  Siscra 
without  making  me  a  Jacl,"  said  ISIissVan  Sie- 
ve r. 

"Of  course  he  can,"  said  Jlrs.  Broughton. 

"But  I  never  will,"  said  tlie  artist.  "  I  con- 
ceived the  subject  as  connected  with  you,  and  I 
will  never  disjoin  the  two  ideas." 

"I  think  it  no  compliment,  I  can  assure 
you,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever. 

"And  none  was  intended.  But  you  may 
observe  that  artists  in  all  ages  have  sought  for 
higher  types  of  models  in  painting  women  who 
have  been  violent  or  criminal  than  have  suf- 
ficed for  them  in  their  portraitures  of  gentle- 
ness and  virtue.  Look  at  all  the  Judiths,  and 
the  Lucretias,  and  the  Charlotte  Cordays ;  how 
much  finer  the  women  are  than  the  Madonnas 
and  the  Saint  Cecilias." 

"After  that,  Clara,  you  need  not  scruple  to 
be  a  Jael,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"But  I  do  scruple — very  much ,  so  strongly 
that  I  know  I  never  shall  do  it.  In  tlie  first 
place  I  don't  know  why  Mr.  Dalrymple  wants 
it." 

' '  Want  it !"  said  Ccnway.  "  I  want  to  pamt 
a  striking  jiicture." 

"But  you  can  do  that  without  putting  me 
into  it." 

"No;  not  this  picture.  And  why  should 
3'ou  object?  It  is  the  commonest  thing  in  the 
world  for  ladies  to  sit  to  artists  in  that  man- 
ner." 

"  People  would  know  it  " 

"  Nobody  would  know  it  so  that  A'ou  need 
care  about  it.  What  would  it  matter  if  every 
■  body  knew  it  ?  We  are  not  proposing  any  thing 
improper — are  we,  Mrs.  Broughton  ?" 

"She  shall  not  be  pressed  if  she  does  not 
like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton.  "You  know  I 
told  you  before  Clara  came  in  that  I  was  afraid 
it  could  not  be  done." 

"And  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever, 
with  some  little  hesitation  in  her  voice. 


"I  don't  see  any  thing  improper  in  it,  if  you 
mean  that,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"But  mamma!" 

"Well,  yes;  that  is  the  difficulty,  no  doubt. 
The  only  question  is,  whether  your  mother  h 
not  so  very  singular  as  to  make  it  impossible 
that  you  should  comply  with  her  in  every  thing." 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  do  not  comply  with  her 
in  very  much,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever,  in  her 
gentlest  voice. 

"Oh,  Clara!" 

"You  drive  me  to  say  so,  as  otherwise  I 
should  be  a  hypocrite.  Of  course  I  ought  not 
to  have  said  it  before  Mr.  Dalrymjde." 

"You  and  Mr.  Dalrymple  will  understand 
all  about  that,  I  dare  say,  before  the  picture  is 
finished,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

It  did  not  take  much  persirasion  on  the  part 
of  Conway  Dalrymple  to  get  the  consent  of  the 
younger  lady  to  be  painted,  or  of  the  elder  to 
Htlow  the  sitting  to  go  on  in  her  room.  When 
the  question  of  easels  and  other  apparatus  came 
to  be  considered  Mrs.  Broughton  was  rather 
flustered,  and  again  declared  with  energy  that 
the  whole  thing  must  fall  to  the  ground ;  but  a 
few  more  words  from  the  painter  restored  her, 
and  at  last  the  arrangements  were  made.  As 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's  dear  friend  Madalina 
Demolines  had  said,  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  liked 
a  fevered  existence.  "  What  will  Dobbs  say  ?" 
she  exclaimed  more  than  once.  And  it  was 
decided  at  last  that  Dobbs  should  knoAV  nothing 
about  it  as  long  as  it  could  be  kept  from  him, 
"Of  course  he  shall  be  told  at  last,"  said  his 
wife.  "I  wouldn't  keep  any  thing  from  the 
dear  fellow  for  all  the  world.  But  if  he  knew 
it  at  first  it  would  be  sure  to  get  through  Mus- 
selboro  to  your  mother." 

"I  certainly  shall  beg  that  Mr.  Broughton 
may  not  be  taken  into  confidence  if  Mr.  Mus- 
selboro  is  to  follow."  said  Clara.  "And  it  must 
be  understood  that  I  must  cease  to  sit  imme- 
diately, whatever  may  be  the  inconvenience, 
should  mamma  speak  to  me  about  it." 

This  stipulation  was  made  and  conceded,  and 
then  Miss  Van  Siever  went  away,  leaving  the 
artist  with  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  "And  now, 
if  you  please,  Conway,  you  had  better  go  too," 
said  the  lady,  as  soon  as  there  had  been  time 
for  Miss  Van  Siever  to  get  down  stairs  and  out 
of  the  hall  door. 

"Of  course  you  are  in  a  hurry  tx)  get  rid  of  me." 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"A  little  while  ago  I  improperly  said  that 
some  suggestion  of  yours  was  nonsense,  and  you 
rebuked  me  for  my  blunt  incivility.  Might  not 
I  rebuke  you  now  with  equal  justice?" 

"Do  so,  if  you  will,  but  leave  me.  I  tell 
you,  Conway,  that  in  these  matters  you  must 
either  be  guided  by  me,  or  you  and  I  must  cease 
to  see  each  other.  It  does  not  do  that  you 
should  remain  hero  with  me  longer  than  the 
time  usually  allowed  for  a  morning  call.  Clara 
has  come  and  gone,  and  you  also  must  go.  I 
am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  for  you  seem  to  be  so 
very  comfortable  in  that  chair." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


119 


"I  am  comfortable — and  I  can  look  at  you. 
Come  ;  there  can  be  no  harm  in  saying  tliat,  if 
I  say  nothing  else.  Well;  there,  now  I  am 
gone."  Whereupon  he  got  up  from  liis  arm- 
chair. 

"  But  you  arc  not  gone  while  you  stand 
there." 

"And  you  would  really  wish  mc  to  marry 
that  girl?" 

"I  do — if  you  can  love  her." 

"And  what  about  her  love?" 

"You  must  win  it,  of  course.  She  is  to  be 
won,  like  any  other  woman.  Tlie  fruit  won't 
fall  into  your  mouth  merely  because  you  open 
your  lips.     You  must  climb  the  tree." 

"  Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides,"  said 
Conway.  "Love  does  that,  you  know;  but  it 
is  hard  to  climb  tlie  trees  without  the  love.  It 
seems  to  mc  tiiat  I  have  done  my  climbing — 
have  clomb  as  high  as  I  knew  how,  and  that 
the  boughs  are  breaking  with  me,  and  that  I  am 
likely  to  get  a  fall.     Do  you  understand  mc  ?" 

"  I  would  leather  not  understand  you;" 

"Tliat  is  no  answer  to  my  question.  Do 
you  understand  that  at  this  moment  I  am  get- 
ting a  fall  which  will  break  every  bone  in  my 
skin  and  put  any  other  climbing  out  of  the 
question  as  far  as  I  am  concerned?  Do  you 
understand  that?" 

"No;  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

"Then  I'll  go  and  make  love  at  once  to 
Clara  Van  Sicver.  There's  enough  of  pluck 
left  in  mc  to  ask  her  to  marry  me,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  could  manage  to  go  through  the  ceremo- 
ny if  she  accepted  me." 

"But  I  want  you  to  love  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton. 

"  I  dare  say  I  should  love  her  well  enough 
after  a  bit ;  that  is,  if  she  didn't  break  my  head 
or  comb  my  hair.  I  sujjpose  there  will  be  no 
objection  to  my  saying  that  you  sent  me  when 
I  ask  her?" 

"  Conway,  you  will  of  course  not  mention  my 
name  to  her  I  have  suggested  to  you  a  mar- 
riage which  I  think  would  tend  to  make  you 
happy,  and  would  give  ynu  a  stabilfty  in  life 
which  you  Avant.  It  is  ]jerhaps  better  that  I 
should  be  exjilicit  at  once.  As  an  unmarried 
man  I  can  not  continue  to  know  you.  You 
have  said  words  of  late  which  have  driven  mq 
to  this  conclusion.  I  have  thought  about  it 
much — too  much,  perhaps,  and  I  know  that! 
am  right.  Miss  Van  Siever  has  beauty  and 
wealth  and  intellect,  and  I  think  tliat  she  would 
appreciate  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  you  are. 
Now  go."  And  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  stand- 
ing upright,  pointed  to  the  door.  Conway 
Dalrymple  slowly  took  his  Spanish  hat  from  off 
the  marble  slab  on  which  he  had  laid  it,  and 
left  the  room  without  saying  a  word.  The  in- 
terview had  been  quite  long  enough,  and  there 
was  nothing  else  which  he  knew  how  to  say 
with  effect. 

Croquet  is  a  pretty  game  out  of  doors,  and 
chess  is  delightful  in  a  drawing-room.     Battle- 


door  and  shuttle-cock  and  hunt-the-slipper  have 
also  their  attractions.  Proverbs  arc  good,  and 
cross-questions  with  crooked  answers  may  be 
made  very  amusing.  But  none  of  these  games 
are  equal  to  the  game  of  love-making — provid- 
ing that  the  players  can  be  quite  sure  that  there 
shall  be  no  heart  in  the  matter.  Any  touch  of 
heart  not  only  destroys  the  pleasure  of  tho 
game,  but  makes  the  player  awkward  and  inca- 
pable and  robs  him  of  his  skill.  And  thus  it  is 
that  there  are  many  people  who  can  not  play 
the  game  at  all.  A  deficiency  of  some  needed 
internal  physical  strength  prevents  the  owners 
of  the  heart  from  keeping  a  proper  control  over 
its  valves,  and  thus  emotion  sets  in,  and  tlie 
pulses  are  accelerated,  and  feeling  supervenes. 
For  such  a  one  to  attempt  a  game  of  love-mak- 
ing is  as  though  your  friend  with  the  gout 
should  insist  on  playing  croquet.  A  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  if  nothing  else,  should  in  either 
case  deter  the  afflicted  one  from  the  attempt. 
There  was  no  such  absurdity  with  our  friend 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  and  Conway  Dalrymple. 
Their  valves  and  pulses  were  all  right.  They 
could  play  the  game  without  the  slightest  dan- 
ger of  any  inconvenient  result — of  any  incon- 
venient result,  that  is,  as  regarded  their  own 
feelings.  Blind  people  can  not  see  and  stupid 
people  can  not  understand — and  it  might  be 
that  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton,  being  both  blind 
and  stupid  in  sucli  matters,  miglit  perceive 
something  of  the  playing  of  tlie  game  and  not 
know  that  it  was  only  a  game  of  skill. 

When  I  say  that  as  regarded  these  two  lovers 
there  was  nothing  of  love  between  them,  and 
that  the  game  was  therefore  so  far  innocent,  I 
would  not  be  understood  as  asserting  tliat  these 
people  had  no  hearts  within  their  bosoms.  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  probably  loved  her  husband 
in  a  sensible,  humdrum  way,  feeling  him  to  be 
a  bore,  knowing  him  to  be  vulgar,  aware  that 
he  often  took  a  good  deal  more  wine  than  was 
good  for  him,  and  that  he  was  almost  as  un- 
educated as  a  hog.  Yet  she  loved  him,  and 
showed  her  love  by  taking  care  that  he  should 
have  things  for  dinner  wiiich  he  liked  to  eat. 
But  in  this  alone  there  were  to  be  found  none 
of  the  charms  of  a  fevered  existence,  and  there- 
fore Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  requiring  tliosc 
charms  for  her  comfort,  played  her  little  game 
with  Conway  Dalrymple.  And  as  regarded 
the  artist  himself,  let  no  reader  presume  him 
to  have  been  heartless  because  he  flirted  .with 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  Doubtless  he  will 
many  some  day,  will  have  a  large  family  for 
which  he  will  work  hard,  and  will  make  a  good 
husband  to  some  stout  lady  who  will  be  careful 
in  looking  after  his  linen.  But  on  the  present 
occasion  he  fell  into  some  slight  trouble  in 
spite  of  the  innocence  of  his  game.  As  he 
quitted  his  friend's  room  he  heard  the  hall 
door  slammed  heavily  ;  then  there  was  a  quick 
step  on  the  stairs,  and  on  the  landing-place 
above  the  first  flight  he  met  the  master  of  the 
house,  somewhat  flurried,  as  it  seemed,  and  not 
looking  comfortable,  either  as  regarded  his  per- 


120 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAIISET. 


son  or  his  temper.  "  By  George,  he's  been 
drinking  I"  Conway  said  to  liiniself,  after  tiie 
first  glance.  Now  it  certainly  was  the  case 
that  jioor  Dubbs  Broiigliton  would  sometimes 
drink  at  impruper  luinrs. 

"What  the  devil  arc  you  doing  here?"  said 
Dobbs  Broughton  to  his  friend  the  artist. 
"You're  always  here.  You're  here  a  dooscd 
sight  more  than  I  like."  Husbands  when  they 
have  been  drinking  arc  very  apt  to  make  mis- 
takes as  to  tlie  inn])ort  of  the  game. 

"Why,  Dobbs,"  said  the  juiintcr,  "there's 
something  wrong  with  you." 

"No,  there  ain't.  Tiierc's  nothing  wrong; 
and  if  there  was,  what's  that  to  yon  'i  I  sha'n't 
ask  you  to  ]iay  any  thing  for  me,  1  sujijjose." 

"Well— I  hope  not." 

"I  won't  have  you  here,  and  let  that  he  an 
end  of  it.  It's  all  very  well  when  I  choose  to 
liave  a  few  friends  to  dinner,  but  my  wife  can 
do  very  wejl  without  your  fiil-lalling  here  all  day. 
"Will  you  remember  that,  if  you  jdease?" 

Conway  Dalrymple,  knowing  that  he  had 
better  not  argue  any  question  with  a  drunken 
man,  took  himself  out  of  the  house,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  as  he  thougjit  of  the  misery  v.hieh 
Ills  poor  dear  jilay-fellow  would  now  be  called 
npon  to  endure. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

A    HERO    AT  'home. 

On  the  morning  after  bis  visit  to  IMiss  Dcmo- 
lines  John  Eames  found  himself  at  the  Padding- 
ton  station  asking  for  a  ticket  for  Guestwick,  and 
as  he  picked  up  his  cliange  another  gentleman 
also  demanded  a  ticket  for  the  same  j^lace. 
Had  Guestwick  been  as  Liverpool  or  Manches- 
ter, Eames  would  have  thought  nothing  about 
it.  It  is  a  matter  of  course  that  men  should 
always  be  going  from  London  to  Liverpool  and 
3Iancliester ;  but  it  seemed  odd  to  him  that  two 
men  should  want  first-class  tickets  for  so  small 
a  place  as  Guestwick  at  the  same  moment.  And 
when,  afterward,  he  was  placed  by  the  guard 
in  the  same  carriage  with  this  other  traveler,  he 
could  not  but  feel  some  little  curiosity.  The 
man  was  four  or  five  j'ears  Johnny's  senior,  a 
good-looking  fellow,  with  a  jjlcasant  face,  and 
the  outward  a])purtenanccs  of  a  gentleman. 
The  intelligent  reader  will  no  doubt  be  aware 
that  the  stranger  was  IMajor  Grantly;  but  the 
intelligent  reader  has  in  this  respect  had  much 
advantage  over  John  Eames,  who  up  to  this 
time  had  never  even  heard  of  his  cousin  Grace 
Crawley's  lover.  "I  think  you  were  asking  for 
a  ticket  for  Guestwick,"  said  Johnny — where- 
upon the  major  owned  that  such  was  the  case. 
"I  lived  at  Guestwick  the  greater  part  of  my 
life,"  said  Johnny,  "and  it's  the  dullest,  dear- 
est little  town  in  all  England."  "I  never  was 
there  before,"  said  the  major,  "and  indeed  I 
can  hardly  say  I  am  going  itherc  now.  I  shall 
only  pass  through  it."  Then  he  got  out  his 
newspaper,  and  Johnny  also  got  out  his,  and  for 


a  time  there  was  no  conversation  l)etween  iheni. 
John  remembered  liow  holy  was  the  errand 
upon  which  he  was  intent,  and  gathered  his 
thoughts  together,  resolving  that  having  so  great 
a  matter  on  his  mind  he  would  think  about  no- 
thing else  and  sjieak  about  nothing  at  all.  lie 
was  going  down  to  AUington  to  ask  Lily  Dale 
for  the  last  time  whether  she  would  be  his  wife  ; 
to  ascertain  whether  he  was  to  be  successful  or 
unsuccessful  in  the  one  great  wish  of  his  life ; 
and,  as  such  was  the  case  with  him — as  he  had 
in  hand  a  thing  so  vital — it  could  be  nothing  to 
him  whether  the  chance  companion  of  his  voy- 
age was  an  agreeable  or  a  disagreeable  person. 
He  himself,  in  any  of  the  ordinary  circumstances 
of  life,  was  jirone  enough  to  talk  with  any  ono 
he  might  meet.  He  could  have  traveled  for 
twelve  hours  together  with  an  old  lady,  and 
could  listen  to  her  or  nuike  her  listen  to  him 
without  half  an  hour's  interrujition.  But  this 
journey  was  made  on  no  ordinary  occasion,  and 
it  behooved  him  to  think  of  Lily.  Therefore, 
after  the  first  little  almost  necessary  effort  at 
civility,  he  fell  back  into  gloomy  silence.  He 
was  going  to  do  his  best  to  win  Lily  Dale,  and 
this  doing  of  his  best  would  require  all  his 
thought  and  all  his  energy. 

And  ])robably  Major  Grantly's  mind  was  bent 
in  the  same  direction.  He,  too,  had  liis  work 
before  him,  and  could  not  look  npon  his  work 
its  a  thing  that  was  altogether  jtleasant.  He 
might  probably  get  that  wliich  he  was  intent  iqjon 
obtaining.  lie  knew — he  almost  knew — that  lie 
had  won  the  heart  of  the  girl  whom  he  was 
seeking.  There  had  been  that  between  him  and 
her  which  justified  him  in  supposing  that  he  was 
dear  to  her,  although  no  expression  of  aficction 
had  ever  ])assed  from  her  lips  to  his  ears.  ]\Ien 
may  know  all  that  they  recjuire  to  know  on 
that  subject  without  any  plainly  spoken  words. 
Grace  Crawley  had  sjjokcn  no  word,  and  yet  he 
had  known — at  any  rate  had  not  doubted,  that 
he  could  have  the  place  in  her  heart  of  Avhich 
he  desired  to  be  the  master.  She  would  never 
surrender  herself  altogether  till  she  had  taught 
lierself  to  be  sure  of  him  to  whom  she  gave  her- 
self. Bitt  she  had  listened  to  him  with  silence 
that  had  not  rebuked  him,  and  he  had  told  him- 
self that  he  might  venture,  without  fear  of  that 
rebuke  as  to  which  the  minds  of  some  men  are 
sensitive  to  a  degree  which  other  men  can  not 
even  understand.  But  for  all  this  Major  Grant- 
ly could  not  be  altogether  happy  as  to  his  mission. 
He  would  ask  Grace  Crawley  to  be  his  wife ; 
but  he  would  be  ruined  by  his  own  success. 
And  the  remembrance  that  he  would  be  severed 
from  all  his  own  family  by  the  thing  that  lie 
was  doing  was  very  bitter  to  him.  In  gener- 
osity he  might  be  silent  about  this  to  Grace,  but 
who  can  endure  to  be  silent  on  such  a  subject 
to  the  woman  who  is  to  lie  his  wife?  And  then 
it  would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  abstain  from 
explanation.  He  was  now  following  her  down 
to  AUington,  a  step  which  he  certainly  would 
not  have  taken  but  for  the  misfortune  which  had 
befallen  her  father,  and  he  must  explain  to  her 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  EARSET. 


121 


in  some  sort  why  he  did  so.  He  must  say  to  her 
— if  not  in  so  many  words,  still  almost  as  plain- 
ly as  words  could  speak — I  am  here  now  to  ask 
you  to  be  my  wife,  because  you  specially  require 
the  protection  and  countenance  of  the  man  who 
loves  you,  in  the  present  circumstances  of  your 
father's  affairs.  He  knew  that  he  was  doing 
right — perhaps  had  some  idea  that  he  was  doing 
nobly;  but  this  very  appreciation  of  his  own 
good  qualities  made  the  task  before  him  the  more 
difficult. 

Major  Grantly  had  the  Tunes,  and  John 
Eames  had  the  Daily  Neus,  and  they  ex- 
changed papers.  One  had  the  last  Satia-dai/, 
and  the  othe-r  tiie  last  Spectator,  and  they  ex- 
changed those  also.  Both  had  tlie  Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  of  which  enterprising  periodical  they 
gradually  came  to  discuss  the  merits  and  de- 
merits, tlius  falling  into  conversation  at  last,  in 
spite  of  the  weight  of  the  mission  on  which 
each  of  them  was  intent.  Then,  at  last,  when 
they  were  within  half  an  hour  of  the  end  of 
tlieir  journey,  JMajor  Grantly  asked  his  com- 
panion what  was  the  best  inn  at  Guestwick.  He 
had  at  first  been  minded  to  go  on  to  Allington 
at  once — to  go  on  to  Allington  and  get  his 
•uork  done,  and  then  return  home  or  remain 
there,  or  find  the  nearest  inn  with  a  decent 
bed,  as  circumstances  might  direct  him.  But  on 
reconsideration,  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  scene 
of  his  future  operations,  he  thought  that  it  might 
be  well  for  him  to  remain  that  niglit  at  Guest- 
wick. He  did  not  quite  know  how  fiir  Alling- 
ton was  from  Guestwick,  but  he  did  know  that 
it  was  still  midwinter,  and  that  the  days  were 
veiy  short.  "The  ^Ligpie"  was  the  best  inn, 
Johnny  said.  Having  lived  at  Guestwick  all 
his  life,  and  having  a  mother  living  there  now, 
he  had  never  himself  put  up  at  "The  Magpie," 
but  he  believed  it  to  be  a  good  country  inn. 
They  kept  post-horses  there,  he  knew.  He  did 
not  tell  the  stranger  that  his  late  old  friend, 
Lord  De  Guest,  and  his  present  old  friend, 
Lady  Julia,  always  hired  post-horses  from 
"The  Magpie,"  but  he  grounded  his  ready 
assertion  on  the  remembrance  of  that  fact.  "  I 
think  I  sliall  stay  there  to-night,"  said  the 
major.  "You'll  find  it  pretty  comfortable,  I 
don't  doubt,"  said  Johnny.  "Though,  indeed, 
it  always  seems  to  me  that  a  man  alone  at  an 
inn  has  a  very  bad  time  of  it.  Reading  is  all 
very  well,  but  one  gets  tired  of  it  at  last.  And 
then  I  hate  horse-hair  chairs."  "It  isn't  very 
delightful,"  said  tlie  major,  "  but  beggars  mustn't 
be  choosers."  Then  there  was  a  pause,  after 
which  the  major  spoke  again.  ' '  You  don't 
happen  to  know  which  way  Allington  lies?" 

"Allington!"  said  Johnny. 

"Yes,  Allington.  Is  there  not  a  village  call- 
ed Allington?"      : 

"There  is  avillage  called  Allington,  certain- 
ly. It  lies  over  there."  And  Johnny  pointed 
with  his  finger  tlirough  the  window.  "As  you 
do  not  know  the  country  you  can  see  nothing, 
but  I  can  sec  the  Allington  trees  at  this  mo- 
iinent." 

H 


"  I  suppose  there  is  no  inn  at  Allington  ?" 

"There's  a  public  house,  with  a  very  nice 
clean  bedroom.  It  is  called  tlie  'Red  Lion.' 
Mrs.  Forrard  keeps  it.  I  would  quite  as  soon 
stay  there  as  at  'The  Magpie.'  Only  if  they 
don't  expect  you,  they  wouldn't  have  much  for 
dinner." 

"Tiien  you  know  the  village  of  Allington?" 

"Yes,  I  know  the  village  of  Allington  very 
well.  I  have  friends  living  there.  Indeed,  I 
may  say  I  know  every  body  in  Allington." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Dale?" 

"  Mrs.  Dale  ?"  said  Johnny.  "  Yes,  I  know- 
Mrs.  Dale.  I  have  known  JNIrs.  Dale  pretty 
nearly  all  my  life."  Who  could  this  man  be 
who  was  going  down  to  see  Mrs.  Dale — Mrs. 
Dale,  and  consequently  Lily  Dale  ?  He  thought 
tliat  he  knew  Mrs.  Dale  so  well  that  she  could 
have  no  visitor  of  whom  he  would  not  be  en- 
titled to  have  some  knowledge.  But  Major 
Grantly  had  nothing  more  to  say  at  the  moment 
about  Mrs.  Dale.  He  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Dale 
in  his  life,  and  was  now  going  to  her  house,  not 
to  see  her,  but  a  friend  of  hers.  He  found  that 
he  could  not  very  well  explain  this  to  a  stran-^ 
ger,  and  therefore  at  the  moment  he  said  no- 
thing further.  But  Johnny  would  not  allow 
the  subject  to  be  dropped.  "  Have  you  known 
Mrs.  Dale  long?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her  at 
all,"  said  the  major. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  by  your  asking  after 
her — " 

"I  intend  to  call  upon  her,  that  is  all.  I 
suppose  they  will  have  an  omnibus  here  from 
'  The  Magpie  ?'  "  Eames  said  that  there  no 
doubt  would  be  an  omnibus  from  "The  Mag- 
pie," and  then  they  were  at  their  journey's  end. 

For  the  present  we  will  follow  John  Eames, 
who  went  at  once  to  his  mother's  house.  It  was 
his  intention  to  remain  there  for  two  or  three 
days,  and  then  go  over  to  the  house,  or  rather 
to  the  cottage,  of  his  great  ally.  Lady  Julia, 
which  lay  just  beyond  Guestwick  ]\Ianor,  and 
somewhat  nearer  to  Allington  than  to  the  town 
of  Guestwick.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  not  himself  go  over  to  Allington  till 
he  could  do  so  from  Guestwick  Cottage,  as  it 
w'as  called,  feeling  that,  under  certain  untoward 
circumstances — should  untoward  circumstances 
arise — Lady  Julia's  sympathy  might  be  more 
endurable  than  that  of  his  motlier.  But  he 
would  take  care  that  it  should  be  known  at  Al- 
lington that  he  was  in  the  neighborhood.  He 
understood  the  necessary  strategy  of  his  cam- 
paign too  well  to  suppose  that  he  Could  startle 
Lily  into  acquiescence. 

With  his  own  mother  and  sister  John  Eames 
was  in  these  days  quite  a  hero.  He  was  a  hero 
with  them  now,  because  in  his  early  boyish  days 
there  had  been  so  little  about  him  that  was  he- 
roic. Then  there  had  been  a  doubt  whether  he 
would  ever  earn  his  daily  bread,  and  he  had 
been  a  very  heavy  burden  on  the  slight  family 
resources  in  the  matter  of  jackets  and  trowsers. 
The  pride  taken  in  our  Jolmny  had  not  been 


122 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


great,  though  the  love  felt  for  him  had  been 
warm.  But  graJuuUy  tilings  liad  changed, 
and  John  Eunics  had  become  heroic  in  his 
mother's  eyes.  A  chance  circumstance  had 
endeared  liim  to  Earl  De  Guest,  and  from  tluit 
moment  tilings  had  gone  well  with  him.  The 
carl  had  given  him  a  watch  and  had  left  him  a 
fortune,  and  Sir  Rafale  BnlHe  had  made  him 
a  private  secretary.  In  the  old  days,  when 
Johnny's  love  for  Lily  Dale  was  first  discussed 
by  his  mother  and  sister,  they  had  thought  it 
impossible  that  Lily  should  ever  bring  herself 
to  regard  with  affection  so  humble  a  suitor;  for 
the  Dales  have  ever  held  their  heads  up  in  the 
world.  But  now  there  is  no  misgiving  on  that 
score  with  ]Mrs.  Eames  and  her  daughter.  Their 
wonder  is  that  Lily  Dale  should  be  such  a  focd 
as  to  decline  the  love  of  such  a  man.  So 
Johnny  was  received  with  the  rcsj)cct  due  to  a 
liero,  as  well  as  with  the  affection  belonging  to 
a  son ;  by  which  I  mean  it  to  be  inferred  that 
Mrs.  Eames  had  got  a  little  bit  of  fish  for  din- 
ner as  well  as  a  leg  of  mutton. 

"A  man  came  down  in  the  train  with  me 
who  says  he  is  going  over  to  Allington,"  said 
Johnny.  "  I  wonder  who  he  can  be.  He  is 
staying  at  'The  Magpie.'  " 

"A  friend  of  Captain  Dale's,  probably,"  said 
INIary.  Ca])tain  Dale  was  the  squire's  nephew 
and  his  heir. 

"But  this  man  was  not  going  to  the  squire's. 
He  was  going  to  the  Small  House." 

"  Is  he  going  to  stay  there  ?" 

"I  suppose  not,  as  he  asked  about  the  inn." 
Then  Johnny  reflected  that  the  man  might  prob- 
ably be  a  friend  of  Crosbie's,  and  became  mel- 
anclioly  in  consequence.  Crosbie  might  have 
thought  it  expedient  to  send  an  embassador 
down  to  prepare  the  ground  for  him  before  he 
should  venture  again  upon  tlie  scene  himself. 
If  it  were  so,  would  it  not  be  well  that  he,  John 
Eames,  should  get  over  to  Lily  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  not  wait  till  he  should  be  staying 
with  Lady  Julia? 

It  was  at  any  rate  incumbent  upon  him  to 
call  upon  Lady  Julia  the  next  morning,  because 
of  his  commission.  The  Berlin  wool  might 
remain  in  his  portmanteau  till  his  portmanteau 
should  go  with  him  to  the  cottage ;  but  he 
would  take  the  spectacles  at  once,  and  he  must 
explain  to  Lady  Julia  what  the  lawyers  had 
told  him  about  the  income.  So  he  hired  a 
saddle-horse  from  "The  Magpie"  and  started 
after  breakfast  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival. 
In  his  unheroic  days  he  would  have  walked — 
as  he  had  done,  scores  of  times,  over  the  whole 
distance  from  Guestwick  to  Allington.  But 
now,  in  these  grander  days,  he  thought  about 
his  boots  and  the  mud,  and  the  formal  appear- 
ance of  the  thing.  "Ah,  dear!"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  the  nag  walked  slowly  out  of  the 
town,  "it  used  to  be  better  with  me  in  the  old 
days.  I  hardly  hoped  that  she  would  ever  ac- 
cept me,  but  at  least  she  had  never  refused  me. 
And  then  that  brute  had  not  as  yet  made  his 
way  down  to  Allington  !" 


He  did  not  go  very  fast.  After  leaving  the 
town  he  trotted  on  for  a  mile  or  so.  But  when 
he  got  to  the  palings  of  Guestwick  Manor  he 
let  the  animal  walk  again,  and  his  mind  ran 
back  over  tlie  incidents  of  his  life  which  were 
connected  with  the  jdace.  He  remembered  a 
certain  long  ramble  which  he  had  taken  in 
those  woods  after  Lily  had  refused  him.  That 
had  been  subsequent  to  the  Crosbie  episode  in 
his  life,  and  Johnny  had  been  led  to  hope  by 
certain  of  his  friends — especially  by  Lord  De 
Guest  and  his  sister — that  he  might  then  be 
successful.  But  he  had  been  unsuccessful, 
and  had  passed  the  bitterest  hour  of  his  life 
wandering  about  in  those  woods.  Since  that 
he  had  been  unsuccessful  again  and  again ; 
but  the  bitterness  of  failure  had  not  been  so 
strong  with  him  as  on  that  first  occasion.  He 
would  try  again  now,  and  if  he  failed  he  would 
fail  for  the  last  time.  As  he  was  thinking  of 
all  this  a  gig  overtook  him  on  the  road,  and 
on  looking  round  he  saw  that  the  occupant  of 
the  gig  was  the  man  who  had  traveled  with 
him  on  the  previous  day  in  the  train.  Major 
Grantly  was  alone  in  the  gig,  and  as  he  recog- 
nized John  Eames  he  stopped  his  horse.  "  Are 
you  also  going  to  Allington  ?"  he  asked.  John 
Eames,  with  something  of  scorn  in  his  voice, 
replied  that  he  had  no  intention  of  going  to 
Allington  on  that  day.  He  still  thought  that 
this  man  might  be  an  emissary  from  Crosbie, 
and  therefore  resolved  that  but  scant  courtesy 
was  due  to  him.  "  I  am  on  my  way  there  now," 
said  Grantly,  "and  am  going  to  the  house  of 
your  friend.  May  I  tell  her  that  I  traveled  with 
yon  yesterday  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  Johnny.  "You  may  tell 
her  that  you  came  down  with  John  Eames." 

"And  are  you  John  Eames?"  asked  the 
major. 

"If  you  have  no  objection,"  said  Johnny. 
"  But  I  can  hardly  suppose  you  have  ever  heard 
my  name  before?" 

"It  is  familiar  to  me,  because  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  a  cousin  of  yours.  Miss 
Grace  Crawley." 

"My  cousin  is  at  present  staying  at  Allington 
with  Mrs.  Dale,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  major,  who  now  began  to 
reflect  that  he  had  been  indiscreet  in  mentioning 
Grace  Crawley's  name.  No  doubt  every  one 
connected  with  the  family,  all  the  Crawleys,  all 
the  Dales,  and  all  the  Eames's,  would  soon  know 
the  business  which  had  brought  him  down  to 
Allington ;  but  he  need  not  have  taken  the 
trouble  of  beginning  the  story  against  himself. 
John  Eames,  in  truth,  had  never  even  heard 
Major  Grantly's  name,  and  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  fortune  which  awaited  his  cousin.  Even 
after  what  he  had  now  beci  told  he  still  sus- 
pected the  stranger  of  being  an  emissary  from 
his  enemy ;  but  the  major,  nmt  giving  him  credit 
for  his  ignorance,  was  annoyed  with  himself  for 
having  told  so  much  of  hisj;  own  history.  "I 
will  tell  the  ladies  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you,"  he  said ;  "that  is,  if  I  am  luck*  ■ 


THE  LAST  CHEOXICLE  OF  BARSET. 


123 


enough   to   sec  them."      And  then   he  drove 
on. 

"  I  know  I  should  hate  that  fellow  if  I  were 
to  meet  him  any  where  again,"  said  Johnny  to 
himself,  as  he  rode  on.  "When  I  take  an 
Aversion  to  a  fellow  at  first  sight  I  always  stick 
to  it.  It's  instinct,  I  suppose."  And  he  Avas 
still  giving  himself  credit  for  the  strength  of  his 
instincts  when  he  reached  Lady  Julia's  cottage. 
lie  rode  at  once  into  the  stahle-yard,  with  the 
privilege  of  an  accustomed  friend  of  the  house, 
and  having  given  up  his  horse,  entered  the  cot- 
tage by  the  back  door.  "Is  my  lady  at  home, 
Jemima?"  he  said  to  the  maid. 

"  Yes,  JNIr.  John  ;  she  is  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  friends  of  yours  are  with  her."  Then  he 
was  announced,  and  found  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Lady  Julia,  Lily  Dale,  and  Grace 
Crawley. 

He  was  very  warmly  received.     Lady  Julia 
really  loved  him  dearly,  and  would  have  done 
any  thing  in  her  power  to  bring  about  a  match 
between  him  and  Lily.     Grace  was  his  cousin, 
and  though  she  had  not  seen  him  often  she  was 
prepared  to  love  him   dearly  as  Lily's  lover. 
And  Lily — Lily  loved  him  dearly  too — if  only 
she  could  have  brought  herself  to  love  him  as  ■ 
he  wished  to  be  loved  !     To  all  of  them  Johnny 
Eames  was  something  of  a  hero.     At  any  rate 
ia  the  eyes  of  all  of  them  he  possessed  those  vir-  [ 
tues  which  seemed  to  them  to  justify  them  in  : 
petting  him  and  making  much  of  him. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you've  come — that  is,  if  you've 
brought  my  spectacles,"  said  Lady  Julia.  ! 

"My  pockets  are  crammed  with  spectacles," 
said  Johnny.  j 

"  And  when  are  you  coming  to  mc  ?"  I 

"I  was  thinking  of  Tuesday." 

"No;  don't  come  till  Wednesday.  But  I 
mean  Monday.  No ;  Monday  won't  do.  Come 
on  Tuesday — earl}-,  and  drive  me  out.  And  now 
tell  us  the  news." 

Johnny  swore  that  there  was  no  news.  He 
made  a  brave  attempt  to  be  gay  and  easy  before 
Lily  ;  but  he  failed,  and  he  knew  tliat  he  failed 
— and  he  knew  that  she  knew  that  he  failed. 
"  Mamma  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Lily. 
"I  suppose  you  haven't  seen  Bell  yet?" 

' '  I  only  got  to  G  uestwick  yesterday  afternoon , " 
said  he. 

"And  it  will  be  so  nice  our  having  Grace  at 
the  Small  House — won't  it  ?  Uncle  Christopher 
has  quite  taken  a  passion  for  Grace — so  that 
I  am  hardly  any  body  now  in  the  Allington 
world." 

"  By-the-by,"  said  Johnny,  "I  came  down 
here  with  a  friend  of  yours,  Grace." 

"A  friend  of  mine?"  said  Grace. 

"  So  he  says,  and  he  is  at  Allington  at  this 
moment.     He  passed  me  in  a  gig  going  there." 

"  And  what  was  his  name  ?"  Lily  asked. 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea,"  said  Johnny. 
"He  is  a  man  about  my  own  age,  very  good- 
looking,  and  apparently  very  well  able  to  take 
care  of  himself.  lie  is  short-sighted,  and  holds 
a  glass  in  one  eye  when  he  looks  out  of  a  car- 


riage-window. That's  all  that  I  know  about 
him." 

Grace  Crawley's  face  had  become  suiTused 
with  blushes  at  the  first  mention  of  the  friend 
and  the  gig  ;  but  then  Grace  blushed  very  easilv. 
Lily  knew  all  about  it  at  once — at  once  divined 
who  must  be  the  friend  in  the  gig,  and  was  al- 
most beside  herself  with  joy.  Lady  Julia,  who 
had  heard  no  more  of  the  major  than  had  Johnny, 
was  still  clever  enough  to  perceive  that  the 
friend  must  be  a  particular  friend — for  she  had 
noticed  Miss  Crawley's  blushes.  And  Grace 
herself  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  man.  The  pic- 
ture of  her  lover,  with  the  glass  in  his  eye  as  he 
looked  out  of  the  window,  had  been  too  perfect 
to  admit  of  a  doubt.  In  her  distress  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  hold  of  Lily's  dress. 

"And  you  sav  he  is  at  Allington  now?"  said 
Lily. 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  is  at  the  Small  House 
at  this  moment,"  said  Johnny. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

SHOWING   now  MAJOR  GEAKTLY  TOOK  A  WALK. 

Major  Grantly  drove  his  gig  into  the  yard 
of  the  "  Red  Lion"  at  Allington,  and  from  thence 
walked  away  at  once  to  Mrs.  Dale's  house. 
When  he  reached  the  village  he  had  hardly 
made  up  his  mind  as  to  the  way  in  which  he 
would  begin  his  attack ;  but  now,  as  he  went 
down  the  street,  he  resolved  that  he  would  first 
ask  for  Mrs.  Dale.  Most  probably  he  would 
find  himself  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dale  and 
her  daughter,  and  of  Grace  also,  at  his  first  en- 
trance ;  and  if  so,  his  position  would  be  awk- 
ward enough.  He  almost  regretted  now  that 
he  had  not  written  to  Mrs.  Dale,  and  asked  for 
an  interview.  His  task  would  be  very  difficult 
if  he  should  find  all  the  ladies  together.     But 


12i 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


he  was  stronjc  in  the  feeling  that  wlien  his  pur- 
pose was  told  it  wouKl  meet  the  approval  at 
any  rate  of  Mrs.  Dale ;  and  ho  walked  boldly 
on,  and  bravely  knocked  at  tlie  door  of  the 
Small  House,  as  he  had  already  learned  that 
Mrs.  Dale's  residence  was  called  by  all  the 
neighborhood.  Nobody  was  at  home,  tlie  serv- 
ant said  ;  and  tlien,  wlien  the  visitor  began  to 
make  farther  inquiry,  the  girl  cx]ihuued  that 
the  two  young  ladies  had  walked  as  far  as 
Gucstwick  Cottage,  and  that  Mrs.  Dale  was  at 
this  moment  at  the  Great  House  with  the 
squire.  She  had  gone  across  soon  after  the 
young  ladies  had  started.  Tlic  maid,  however, 
was  interrupted  before  she  hail  finished  telling 
all  tliis  to  the  major  by  finding  her  mistress 
behind  her  in  the  passage.  Mrs.  Dale  liad  re- 
turned, and  had  entered  the  house  from  the  lawn. 

"  I  am  here  now,  Jane,"  said  j\Irs.  Dale,  "if 
the  gentleman  wishes  to  see  me." 

Then  the  major  announced  himself.  "My 
name  is  Major  Grantly,"  said  he ;  and  he  was 
blundering  on  with  some  words  about  his  own 
intrusion,  when  Mrs.  Dale  begged  him  to  fol- 
low her  into  the  drawing-room.  He  had  mut- 
tered something  to  the  effect  tliat  Mrs.  Dale 
would  not  know  who  he  was ;  but  Mrs.  Dale 
knew  all  about  him,  and  had  heard  the  whole 
of  Grace's  story  from  Lily.  She  and  Lily  had 
often  discussed  the  question  whether,  under  ex- 
isting circumstances,  Major  Grantly  should  feel 
himself  bound  to  offer  his  hand  to  Grace,  and 
the  mother  and  daugliter  had  differed  somewhat 
on  the  matter.  Mrs,  Dale  had  held  that  he 
was  not  so  bound,  urging  that  the  unfortunate 
position  in  which  Mr.  Ci'awley  was  placed  was 
so  calamitous  to  all  connected  with  him  as  to 
justify  any  man,  not  absolutely  engaged,  in 
abandoning  tlie  thoughts  of  sueii  a  marriage. 
Mrs.  Dale  had  spoken  of  ]Major  Grantly's  fa- 
ther and  mother  and  brother  and  sister,  and 
had  declared  her  opinion  that  they  were  en- 
titled to  consideration.  But  Lily  had  opposed 
this  idea  very  stoutly,  asserting  that  in  an  affair 
of  love  a  man  should  think  neither  of  father  or 
brother  or  mother  or  sister.  "If  he  is  worth 
any  thing,"  Lily  had  said,  "he  will  come  to 
her  now — now  in  her  trouble  ;  and  will  tell  her 
that  she  at  least  has  got  a  friend  who  will  be 
true  to  her.  If  he  does  that,  then  I  shall  think 
that  there  is  something  of  tlie  poetry  and  noble- 
ness of  love  left."  In  answer  to  this  Mrs.  Dale 
had  replied  that  women  had  no  riglit  to  expect 
from  men  such  self-denying  nobility  as  that. 
"I  don't  expect  it,  mamma,"  said  Lily.  "And  I 
am  sure  that  Grace  docs  not.  Indeed  I  am  quite 
sure  that  Grace  docs  not  expect  even  to  see 
him  ever  again.  She  never  says  so,  but  I  know 
that  she  has  made  up  her  mind  about  it.  Still 
I  think  he  ouglit  to  come."  "  It  can  hardly  be 
that  a  man  is  bound  to  do  a  thing,  tlie  doing  of 
which,  as  you  confess,  would  be  almost  more 
than  noble,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  And  so  the  mat- 
ter had  been  discussed  between  them.  But 
now,  as  it  seemed  to  jNIrs.  Dale,  the  man  had 
come  to  do  this  noble  thing.     At  any  rate  he 


was  there  in  her  drawing-room,  and  before 
either  of  them  had  sat  down  he  had  contrived 
to  mention  Grace.  "  You  may  not  probably 
have  heard  my  name,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  your  friend,  Miss  Crawley." 

"  I  know  your  name  very  well,  Major  Grant- 
ly. My  brother-in-law  who  lives  over  yonder, 
Mr.  Dale,  knows  your  father  very  well — or  he 
did  some  years  ago.  And  I  have  heard  him 
say  that  he  remembers  you." 

"  I  recollect.  He  used  to  be  staying  at  Ulla- 
thorne.  But  that  is  a^ong  time  ago.  Is  he  at 
home  now?" 

"Mr.  Dale  is  almost  always  at  home.  He 
very  rarely  goes  away,  and  I  am  sure  would  bo 
glad  to  see  you." 

Then  there  was  a  little  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation. They  had  managed  to  seat  themselves, 
and  Mrs.  Dale  had  said  enough  to  put  her  visit- 
or fairly  at  his  ease.  If  he  had  any  thing  spe- 
cial to  say  to  her,  he  must  say  it — any  request 
or  proposition  to  make  as  to  Grace  Crawley, 
he  must  make  it.  And  he  did  make  it  at  once. 
"IMy  object  in  coming  to  Allington,"  he  said, 
"was  to  see  JNIiss  Crawley." 

"  She  and  my  daughter  have  taken  a  long 
walk  to  call  on  a  friend,  and  I  am  afraid  they 
will  stay  for  lunch ;  but  they  will  certainly  be 
home  between  three  and  four,  if  that  is  not  too 
long  fur  you  to  remain  at  Allington." 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  said  he.  "It  will  not  hurt 
me  to  wait." 

"It  certainly  will  not  hurt  mo,  Major  Grant- 
ly.    Perhaps  you  will  lunch  with  me?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Dale  ;  if  you'll  per- 
mit me,  I'll  explain  to  you  why  I  have  come 
here.  Indeed,  I  have  intended  to  do  so  all 
through,  and  I  can  only  ask  you  to  keep  my 
secret,  if  after  all  it  should  require  to  be  kept." 

"I  will  certainly  keep  any  secret  that  you 
may  ask  me  to  keep,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  taking 
off  her  bonnet. 

"  I  hope  there  may  be  no  need  of  one,"  said 
Major  Grantly.  "  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Dale,  that 
I  have  known  Miss  Crawley  for  some  time — 
nearly  for  two  years  now,  and — I  may  as  well 
speak  it  out  at  once — I  have  made  np  my 
mind  to  ask  her  to  be  my  Avifc.  That  is  why 
I  am  here."  Considering  the  nature  of  the 
statement,  which  must  have  been  embarrassing, 
I  think  that  it  was  made  with  fluency  and  sim- 
plicity. 

"Of  course.  Major  Grantly,  you  know  that  I 
have  no  authority  with  our  young  friend,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale.  "  I  mean  that  she  is  not  connect- 
ed with  us  by  family  ties.  She  has  a  f;rther  and 
mother,  living,  as  I  believe,  in  the  same  county 
with  yourself." 

"  I  know  that,  Mrs.  Dale." 

"And  3-ou  may,  perhaps,  understand  that, 
as  Miss  Crawley  is  now  staying  with  me,  I  owe 
it  in  a  measure  to  her  friends  to  ask  you  wheth- 
er they  are  aware  of  your  intention  ?" 

"They  are  not  aware  of  it." 

"I  know  that  at  the  present  moment  they 
are  in  great  trouble." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


12; 


Mrs--  Dale  was  going  on,  but  she  was  inter- 
rupted by  INlMJor  Grantly.  "That  is  just  it," 
he  said.  "  Tliei-c  arc  circumstances  at  present 
which  make  it  almost  impossible  that  I  should 
go  to  Mr.  Crawley  and  ask  his  permission  to 
address  his  daughter.  I  do  not  know  whether 
you  have  heard  the  whole  story?" 

"  As  much,  I  believe,  as  Grace  could  tell  me." 

"  He  is,  I  believe,  in  such  a  state  of  mental 
distress  as  to  be  hardly  capable  of  giving  me  a 
considerate  answer.  And  I  should  not  know 
how  to  speak  to  him,  or  how  not  to  speak  to 
him,  about  this  unfortunate  affair.  But,  Mrs. 
Dale,  you  will,  I  think,  perceive  that  the  same 
circumstances  make  it  imperative  upon  me  to 
be  explicit  to  Miss  Crawley.  I  think  I  am 
the  last  man  to  boast  of  a  woman's  regard,  but 
I  had  learned  to  think  that  I  was  not  indiffer- 
ent to  Grace.  If  that  be  so,  what  must  she 
think  of  me  if  I  stay  away  from  her  now  ?"' 

"  She  understands  too  well  the  weiglit  of  the 
misfortune  which  has  fallen  upon  her  father  to 
sup]iose  that  any  one  not  connected  with  her 
can  be  bound  to  share  it." 

"That  is  just  it.  She  will  think  that  I  am 
silent  for  that  reason.  I  have  determined  that 
that  shall  not  keep  me  silent,  and,  therefore,  I 
have  come  here.  I  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to 
bring  comfort  to  her  in  her  trouble.  As  regards 
my  worldly  position — though,  indeed,  it  will  not 
be  very  good — as  hers  is  not  good  either,  you 
will  not  think  yourself  bound  to  forbid  me  to 
see  her  on  that  head." 

"Certainly  rot.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I 
fully  understand  that,  as  regards  money,  you  are 
offering  every  thing  where  you  can  get  nothing." 

"And  you  understand  my  feeling?" 

"  Indeed  I  do — and  appreciate  the  great  no- 
bility of  your  love  for  Grace.  You  shall  see 
her  here,  if  you  wish  it — and  to-day,  if  you 
choose  to  wait."  Major  Grantly  said  that  he 
would  wait  and  would  see  Grace  on  that  after- 
noon. Jlrs.  Dale  again  suggested  that  he 
should  lunch  with  her,  but  this  he  declined. 
She  then  proposed  that  he  should  go  across  and 
call  upon  the  squire,  and  thus  consume  his 
time.  But  to  this  he  also  objected.  He  was 
not  exactly  in  the  humor,  he  said,  to  renew  so 
old  and  so  slight  an  acquaintance  at  that  time. 
Mr.  Dale  would  probably  have  forgotten  him, 
and  would  be  sure  to  ask  what  had  brought  him 
to  Allington.  He  would  go  and  take  a  walk, 
he  said,  and  come  again  exactly  at  half  past 
three.  Mrs.  Dale  again  expressed  her  certain- 
ty that  the  young  ladies  would  be  back  by  that 
time,  and  Major  Grantly  left  the  house. 

Mrs.  Dale,  when  she  was  left  alone,  could  not 
but  compare  the  good  fortune  which  was  await- 
ing Grace  with  the  evil  fortune  which  had  fallen! 
on  her  own  child.  Here  was  a  man  who  was 
at  all  points  a  gentleman.  Such,  at  least,  was 
tlie  character  which  Mrs.  Dale  at  once  conceded 
to  him.  And  Grace  had  chanced  to  come 
across  this  man,  and  to  please  his  eye,  and  sat- 
isfy his  taste,  and  be  loved  by  him.  And  the 
result  of  that  chance  would  be  that  Grace  would 


have  every  thing  given  to  her  that  the  world 
has  to  give  worth  acceptance.  She  would  have 
a  companion  for  her  life  whom  she  could  trust, 
admire,  love,  and  of  whom  she  could  be  infinitely 
proud.  Mrs.  Dale  was  not  at  all  aware  wheth- 
er Major  Grantly  might  have  five  hundred  a 
year  to  spend,  or  five  thousand — or  what  sum 
intermediate  between  the  two — nor  did  she  give 
much  of  her  thoughts  at  tlie  moment  to  that 
side  of  the  subject.  She  knew  without  think- 
ing of  it — or  fancied  that  she  knew,  that  there 
were  means  sufBcient  for  comfortable  living. 
It  was  solely  the  nature  and  character  of  the 
man  that  was  in  her  mind,  and  the  sufficiency 
that  was  to  be  found  in  them  for  a  wife's  hap- 
piness. But  her  daughter,  her  Lily,  had  come 
across  a  man  who  was  a  scoundrel,  and,  as  the 
consequence  of  that  meeting,  all  her  life  was 
marred  !  Could  any  credit  be  given  to  Grace 
for  her  success,  or  any  blame  attached  to  Lily 
for  her  failure?  Surely  not  the  latter!  How- 
was  her  girl  to  have  guarded  herself  from  a  love 
so  unfortunate,  or  have  avoided  the  rock  on 
which  her  vessel  had  been  shipwrecked  ?  Then 
many  bitter  thoughts  passed  through  Mrs.  Dale's 
mind,  and  she  almost  envied  Grace  Crawley 
her  lover.  Lily  was  contented  to  remain  as 
she  was,  but  Lily's  mother  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  be  satisfied  that  her  child  should  fill  a 
lower  place  in  the  world  than  other  girls.  It 
had  ever  been  lier  idea — an  idea  jn-obably  never 
absolutely  uttered,  even  to  herself,  but  not  the 
less  practically  conceived — that  it,  is  the  busi- 
ness of  a  woman  to  be  married.  That  her  Lily 
should  have  been  won  and  not  worn,  had  been, 
and  would  be,  a  trouble  to  her  forever. 

Major  Grantly  went  back  to  the  inn  and  Faw 
his  horse  fed,  and  smoked  a  cigar,  and  then, 
finding  that  it  was  still  only  just  one  o'clock, 
he  started  for  a  walk.  He  was  careful  not  to 
go  out  of  Allington  liv  the  road  he  had  entered 
it,  as  he  had  no  wish  to  encounter  Grace  and 
her  friend  on  their  return  into  the  village ;  so 
he  crossed  a  little  brook  which  runs  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill  on  which  the  cliief  street  of  Al- 
lington is  built,  and  turned  into  a  field-path  to 
the  left  as  soon  as  he  had  got  beyond  the  houses. 
Not  knowing  the  geography  of  the  place  he  did 
not  understand  that  by  taking  that  path  he  was 
making  his  way  back  to  the  squire's  house ;  but 
it  was  so ;  and  after  sauntering  on  for  about  11 
mile  and  crossing  back  again  over  the  stream, 
of  which  he  took  no  notice,  he  found  himself 
leaning  across  a  gate,  and  looking  into  a  pad- 
dock on  the  other  side  of  which  was  the  high 
wall  of  a  gentleman's  garden.  To  avoid  this 
he  went  on  a  little  further  and  found  himself  on 
a  farm  road,  and  before  he  could  retrace  his  steps 
so  as  not  to  be  seen  he  met  a  gentleman  whom 
he  presumed  to  be  the  owner  of  the  house.  It 
was  the  squire  surveying  his  home  farm,  as  was 
his  daily  custom  ;  but  Major  Grantly  had  not 
perceived  that  the  house  must  of  necessity  be 
Allington  House,  having  been  aware  that  he  had 
passed  the  entrance  to  the  place  as  he  entered 
the  village  on  the  other  side.      "I'm  afraid  I'm 


12G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


SQUIKE   DALE   AND   MA.IOr.   or.ANTI.Y. 


intnullng,"  lie  said,  lifting;  liis  hat.  "I  came 
up  the  path  yonder,  not  knowiiif;  tliat  it  would 
lead  nic  so  close  to  a  gentleman's  house." 

"There  is  a  right  of  way  through  the  fields 
on  to  the  Guestwiek  road,"  said  tlie  squire,  ' '  and 
therefore  you  are  not  trespassing  in  a.iy  sense  ; 
but  we  are  not  particular  about  such  things  down 
here,  and  you  would  be  very  welcome  if  there 
were  no  right  of  way.  If  you  are  a  stranger, 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  outside  of  the 
old  house.     People  think  it  picturesque." 


Then  Major  Grantly  became  aware  that  this 
nmst  be  the  squire,  and  he  was  annoyed  with 
himself  for  his  own  awkwardness  in  having  thus 
come  upon  the  house,  lie  would  have  wished 
to  kec])  himself  altogether  unseen  if  it  had  been 
possible — and  especially  unseen  i'y  this  old  gen- 
tleman, to  whom,  now  that  he  had  met  him,  he 
was  almost  bound  to  introduce  himself.  But 
be  was  not  absolutely  bound  to  do  so,  and  he 
determined  that  he  would  still  keep  his  peace. 
Even  if  the  squire  should  afterward  hear  of  his 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


127 


having  been  there  what  would  it  matter?  But 
to  proclaim  himself  at  the  present  moment  would 
be  disagreeable  to  him.  He  i)ermittcd  the 
squire,  however,  to  lead  him  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  standing  on 
the  terrace  hearing  an  account  of  the  architect- 
ure of  the  mansion. 

"You  can  sec  the  date  still  in  the  brick-work 
of  one  of  the  cliimncys — that  is,  if  your  eyes  are 
very  good  you  can  sec  it — 1G17.  It  was  com- 
pleted in  that  year,  and  very  little  has  been  done 
to  it  since.    Wc  think  the  chimneys  are  pretty." 

"They  are  very  pretty,"  said  the  major. 
"Indeed,  the  house  altogether  is  as  graceful  as 
it  can  be." 

"Those  trees  are  old,  too,"  said  the  squire, 
pointing  to  two  cedars  which  stood  at  the  side 
of  the  house.  "They  say  they  are  older  than 
the  house,  but  I  don't  feel  sure  of  it.  There 
was  a  mansion  here  before,  very  nearly,  though 
not  quite,  on  the  same  spot." 

"  Your  own  ancestors  were  living  here  before 
that,  I  suppose?"  said  Grantly,  meaning  to  be 
civil. 

"Well,  yes;  two  or  three  hundred  years  be- 
fore it,  I  suppose.  If  you  don't  mind  coming 
down  to  tlic  church-yard,  you'll  get  an  excellent 
view  of  the  house — by  far  tlie  best  that  there  is. 
By-thc-by,  would  you  like  to  step  in  and  take  a 
glass  of  wine?" 

"I'm  very  much  obliged,"  said  the  major, 
"  butjindced  I'd  rather  not."  Then  he  followed 
the  squire  down  to  the  church-yard,  and  was 
shown  the  churcli  as  well  as  the  view  of  the 
house,  and  the  vicarage,  and  a  view  over  to  Al- 
lington  woods  from  the  vicarage  gate,  of  which 
the  squire  was  very  fond,  and  in  this  way  he 
was  taken  back  on  to  the  Guestwick  side  of  the 
village,  and  even  down  on  to  the  road  by  which 
he  had  entered  it,  without  in  the  least  knowing 
Avhere  he  was.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw 
that  it  was  past  two.  "  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  Sir,"  he  said,  again  taking  off  his  hat  to 
the  squire,  "and  if  I  shall  not  be  intruding  I'll 
make  my  way  back  to  the  village." 

"What  village?"  said  the  squire. 

"To  Allington,"  said  Grantly. 

"This  is  Allington,"  said  the  squire  ;  and  as 
he  spoke  Lily  Dale  and  Grace  Crawley  turned 
a  corner  from  the  Guestwick  road  and  came 
close  upon  tiiem.  "Well,  girls,  I  did  not  ex^ 
pect  to  see  you,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  your  mamma 
told  me  you  wouldn't  be  back  till  it  was  nearly 
dark,  Lily." 

"  We  have  come  back  earlier  than  we  intend- 
ed," said  Lily.  She  of  course  had  seen  the 
stranger  with  her  uncle,  and  knowing  the  ways 
of  the  squire  in  such  matters  had  expected  to 
be  introduced  to  him.  But  the  reader  will  be 
aware  that  no  introduction  was  j)0ssible.  It, 
never  occurred  to  Lily  that  tins  man  could  be/ 
the  Major  Grantly  of  whom  she  and  Grace  had 
been  talking  during  the  whole  length  of  the 
walk  home.  But  Grace  and  her  lover  had  of 
course  known  each  other  at  once,  and  Grantly, 
though  he  was  abashed  and  almost  dismayed  by 


the  meeting,  of  course  came  forward  and  gave 
his  hand  to  his  friend.  Grace  in  taking  it  did 
not  utter  a  word. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  introduced  myself 
to  you  as  Major  Grantly?"  said  he,  turning  to 
the  squire. 

"  Major  Grantly  !  Dear  me!  I  had  no  idea 
that  you  were  expected  in  these  parts." 

"I  have  come  without  being  expected." 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  I'm  sure.  I  hojiC  your 
father  is  well  ?  I  used  to  know  him  some  years 
ago,  and  I  dare  say  he  has  not  forgotten  me." 
Then,  while  the  girls  stood  by  in  silence,  and 
while  Grantly  was  endeavoring  to  escape,  the 
squire  invited  him  very  warmly  to  send  his 
portmanteau  up  to  the  house.  '"We'll  have 
the  ladies  ujj  from  the  house  below,  and  make 
it  as  little  dull  for  you  as  possible."  But  this 
would  not  have  suited  Grantly — at  any  rate 
would  not  suit  him  till  he  should  know  what 
answer  he  was  to  have.  He  excused  himself 
therefore,  pleading  a  positive  necessity  to  be  at 
Guestwick  that  evening,  and  then,  explaining 
that  he  had  already  seen  I\trs.  Dale,  he  ex- 
jjressed  his  intention  of  going  back  to  the  Small 
House  in  company  with  the  ladies,  if  they  would 
allow  him.  The  squire,  who  did  not  as  yet  quite 
understand  it  all,  bade  him  a  formal  adieu,  and 
Lily  led  the  way  home  down  behind  the  church- 
yard wall  and  through  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
dens belonging  to  the  Great  House.  She  of 
course  knew  now  who  the  stranger  was,  and  did 
all  in  her  power  to  relieve  Grace  of  her  embar- 
rassment. Grace  had  hitherto  not  spoken  a  sin- 
gle word  since  she  had  seen  her  lover,  nor  did 
she  say  a  word  to  him  in  their  walk  to  the  house. 
And,  in  truth,  he  was  not  much  more  commu- 
nicative than  Grace.  Lily  did  all  the  talking, 
and  with  wonderful  female  skill  contrived  to 
have  some  words  ready  for  use  till  they  all  found 
themselves  together  in  Mrs.  Dale's  drawing- 
room.  "I  have  caught  a  major,  mamma,  and 
landed  him,"  said  Lily,  laughing;  "but  I'm 
afraid,  from  what  I  hear,  that  you  had  caught 
him  first." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MISS    LILY    dale's    LOGIC. 

Lady  Julia  De  Gcest  always  lunched  at 
one  exactly,  and  it  was  not  much  past  twelve 
when  John  Eames  made  his  appearance  at  the 
cottage.  He  was  of  course  told  to  stay,  and  of 
course  said  that  he  would  stay.  It  had  been 
his  purpose  to  lunch  with  Lady  Julia ;  but  then 
he  had  not  expected  to  find  Lily  Dale  at  tls'^ 
cottage.  Lily  herself  would  have  been  quite  a- 
her  ease,  protected  by  Lady  Julia,  and  some- 
what protected  also  by  her  own  powers  of- 
fence, had  it  not  been  that  Grace  was  there 
also.  But  Grace  Crawley,  from  the  moment 
that  she  had  heard  the  doscrii»tion  of  tiie  gen- 
tleman who  looked  out  of  the  window  with  his 
glass  in  his  eye,  had  by  no  means  been  at  her 
case.     Lily  saw  at  once  that  she  could  not  be 


128 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


brought  to  join  in  any  conversation,  and  l)Otli 
John  and  Lady  Julia,  in  their  ignorance  of  the 
matter  in  liand,  made  matters  worse. 

"So  that  was  Major  Grantly?"  said  John. 
"I  liave  heard  of  liini  before,  I  tliink.  He  is 
a  son  of  the  ohi  archdeacon,  is  lie  not?" 

"I  don't  know  about  old  archdeacon,"  said 
Lady  Julia.  "  The  archdeacon  is  the  son  of 
the  old  bishop,  whom  I  remember  very  well. 
And  it  is  not  so  very  long  since  the  bishoj)  died, 
cither." 

"I  wonder  what  he's  doing  at  Allington?" 
said  Johnny. 

"  I  think  he  knows  my  uncle,"  said  Lily. 

"But  he's  going  to  call  on  your  mother,"  he 
said.  Then  Johnny  remembered  that  the  ma- 
jor had  said  something  as  to  knowing  Miss 
Crawley,  and  for  the  moment  he  was  silent. 

"I  remember  when  they  talked  of  making 
the  son  a  bishop  also,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"What — this  same  man  who  is  now  a  ma- 
jor?" said  Johnny. 

"No,  you  goose.  He  is  not  the  son  ;  he  is 
tlie  grandson.  They  were  going  to  make  the 
arcluleacon  a  bishop,  and  I  remember  hearing 
that  he  was  terribly  disajipointed.  He  is  get- 
ting to  be  an  old  man  now,  I  suppose;  and  yet, 
dear  me,  how  well  I  remember  his  father!" 

"He  didn't  look  like  a  bishop's  son,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  How  does  a  bishop's  son  look?"  Lily  asked. 

"I  suppose  lie  ought  to  have  some  sort  of 
clerical  tinge  about  him ;  but  this  fellow  had 
nothing  of  that  kind." 

"  But  then  this  fellow,  as  you  call  him,"  said 
Lily,  "  is  only  the  son  of  an  archdeacon." 

"That  accounts  for  it,  I  suppose,"  said 
Johnny. 

But  during  all  this  time  Grace  did  not  say  a 
word,  and  Lily  perceived  it.  Then  she  be- 
thought herself  as  to  what  she  had  better  do. 
Grace,  she  knew,  could  not  be  comfortable  where 
she  was.  Nor,  indeed,  was  it  probable  that 
Grace  would  be  very  comfortable  in  returning 
home.  There  could  not  be  much  ease  for 
Grace  till  the  coming  meeting  between  her 
and  Major  Grantly  should  be  over.  But  it 
would  be  better  that  Grace  should  go  back  to 
Allington  at  once  ;  and  better  also,  perhaps,  for 
Major  Grantly  that  it  should  be  so.  "Lady 
Julia,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think  we'll  mind 
stopping  for  lunch  to-day." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear;  yon  promised." 

"I  think  we  must  break  our  promise;  I  do 
indeed.  You  mustn't  be  angry  with  us."  And 
Lily  looked  at  Lady  Julia  as  though  there  were 
something  which  Lady  Julia  ought  to  under- 
?  and,  which  she,  Lily,  could  not  quite  explain. 
1  fear  that  Lily  was  false,  and  intended  her  old 
friend  to  believe  that  she  was  running  away  be- 
cause John  Eames  had  come  there. 

"  But  you  will  be  famished,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"We  shall  live  through  it,"  said  Lily. 

"It  is  out  of  the  question  that  I  should  let 
you  walk  all  the  way  here  from  Allington  and 
all  the  way  back  without  taking  something." 


"  We  shall  just  be  home  in  time  for  lunch  if 
wc  go  now, "  said  Lily.  "  Will  not  that  be  best, 
Grace  ?" 

Grace  liardly  knew  what  would  be  best.  She 
only  knew  that  Major  Grantly  was  at  Allington, 
and  that  he  had  come  thither  to  see  her.  The 
idea  of  hurrying  back  after  him  was  unpleasant 
to  her,  and  yet  she  was  so  flurried  that  slie  felt 
thankful  to  Lily  for  taking  her  away  from  the 
cottage.  The  matter  was  compromised  at  last. 
They  remained  tor  half  an  hour,  and  ate  some 
biscuits  and  pretended  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  then  they  started.  John  Eames,  who  in 
truth  believed  that  Lily  Dale  was  running  away 
from  him,  was  b}-  no  means  well  jdeased,  and 
when  the  girls  were  gone  did  not  make  him- 
self so  agreeable  to  his  old  friend  as  he  should 
have  done.  "What  a  fool  I  am  to  come  here 
at  all!"  he  said,  throwing  himself  into  an  arm- 
chair as  soon  as  the  front-door  was  closed. 

"That's  very  civil  to  me,  John  !" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Lady  Julia.  I 
am  a  fool  to  come  near  her  until  I  can  do  so 
without  thinking  more  of  her  than  I  do  of  any 
other  girl  in  the  county." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  any  thing  to  com- 
plain of  as  yet,"  said  Lady  Julia,  who  had  in 
some  sort  perceived  that  Lily's  retreat  had  been 
on  Grace's  account  and  not  on  her  own.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  Lily  was  very  glad  to  see  you, 
and  when  I  told  her  that  you  were  coming  to 
stay  here,  and  would  be  near  them  for  some 
days,  she  seemed  to  be  quite  pleased ;  she  did 
indeed." 

"  Then  why  did  she  run  away  the  moment  I 
came  in?"  said  Johnny. 

"I  think  it  was  something  you  said  about 
that  man  who  has  gone  to  Allington." 

"  What  ditference  can  that  man  make  to  her? 
The  truth  is,  I  despise  myself;  I  do  indeed, 
Lady  Julia.  Only  think  of  my  meeting  Cros- 
bie  at  dinner  the  other  day,  and  his  having  the 
impertinence  to  come  up  and  shake  hands  with 
me." 

"I  suppose  he  didn't  say  any  thing  about 
what  happened  at  the  Baddington  Station  ?" 

"No;  he  didn't  speak  about  that.  I  wish 
I  knew  whether  she  cares  for  him  still.  If  I 
thought  she  did,  I  would  never  speak  another 
word  to  her — I  mean  about  myself.  Of  course 
I  am  not  going  to  quarrel  with  them.  I  am 
not  such  a  fool  as  that."  Then  Lad}'  Julia 
tried  to  comfort  him,  and  succeeded  so  far  that 
he  was  induced  to  eat  the  mince  veal  that  had 
been  intended  for  the  comfort  and  support  of 
the  two  young  ladies  who  had  run  away. 

' '  Do  you  think  it  is  he  ?''  were  the  first  words 
which  Grace  said  when  they  were  fairly  on  their 
way  back  together. 

"I  should  think  it  must  be.  What  other 
man  can  there  be,  of  tliat  sort,  who  would  be 
likely  to  come  to  Allington  to  see  you?" 

"His  coming  is  not  likely.  I  can  not  un- 
derstand that  he  should  come.  He  let  me  leave 
Silverbridge  without  seeing  me — and  I  thought 
that  he  was  quite  right." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


129 


"And  I  think  he  is  quite  right  to  come  here. 
I  am  very  glad  he  has  come.  It  shows  that  he 
has  really  something  like  a  heart  inside  him. 
Had  he  not  come,  or  sent,  or  written,  or  taken 
some  step  before  the  trial  comes  on,  to  make 
you  know  that  he  was  thinking  of  you,  I  should 
have  said  that  he  was  as  hard — as  hard  as  any 
other  man  that  I  ever  heard  of.  Men  are  so 
hard  !  But  I  don't  think  he  is  now.  I  am 
beginning  to  regard  him  as  the  one  chevalier 
sans  peur  ct  sans  reproche,  and  to  fancy  that 
you  ought  to  go  down  on  your  knees  before  him, 
and  kiss  his  highness's  shoe-buckle.  In  judging 
of  men  one's  mind  vacillates  so  quickly  between 
the  scorn  which  is  due  to  a  false  man  and  the 
vorsliip  which  is  due  to  a  true  man."  Then 
she  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  Grace  said 
nothing,  and  Lily  continued,  "  I  tell  you  fairly, 
Grace,  that  I  shall  expect  very  much  from  you 
now." 

"Much  in  what  way,  Lily?" 

"In  the  way  of  worship.  I  shall  not  be  con- 
tent that  you  should  merely  love  him.  If  he  has 
come  here,  as  he  must  have  done,  to  say  that 
the  moment  of  the  woidd's  reproach  is  the  mo- 
ment he  has  chosen  to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife,  I 
tliink  that  you  will  owe  him  more  than  love." 

'•  I  shall  owe  him  more  than  love,  and  I  will 
pay  him  more  than  love,"  said  Grace.  There 
was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  as  sl^ 
spoke  which  made  Lily  s:op  her  and  look  up 
into  her  face.  There  was  a  smile  there  which 
Lily  had  never  seen  before,  and  which  gave  a 
beauty  to  her  which  was  wonderful  to  Lily's 
eyes.  Surely  this  lover  of  Grace's  must  have 
seen  her  smile  like  that,  and  therefore  had  loved 
her  and  was  giving  such  wonderful  proof  of  his 
love.  "Yes,"  continued  Grace,  standing  and 
looking  at  her  friend,  "you  may  stare  at  me, 
ILily,  but  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  do  for 
Major  Grantly  all  the  good  that  I  can  do  for 
him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Grace  ?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  mean.  You  are  very 
imperious  in  managing  your  own  atlairs,  and 
you  must  let  me  be  so  equally  in  mine." 

"But  I  tell  you  every  thing." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  if — if — if  in  real  truth 
it  can  possibly  be  the  case  that  Major  Grantly 
shall  have  come  here  to  offer  me  his  hand  when 
we  are  all  ground  down  into  the  dust,  as  we  are, 
do  you  think  that  I  will  let  him  sacrifice  him/ 
self?     Would  you?" 

"Certainly.  Why  not?  There  will  be  no 
sacrifice.  He  will  be;  a'^Idng  for  that  which  he 
wishes  to  get;  and  you  will  be  bound  to  give  it 
to  him." 

"  If  he  wants  it,  where  is  his  nobility  ?  If  it 
be  as  you  say,  he  will  liave  shown  himself  noble, 
and  his  nobility  will  have  consisted  in  this,  that 
he  has  been  willing  to  take  that  which  he  does 
not  want  in  order  that  he  may  succor  one  whom 
he  loves.  I  also  will  succor  one  whom  I  love 
as  best  I  know  how."  Then  she  walked  on 
quickly  before  her  friend,  and  Lily  stood  for  a 
moment  thinking  before  she  followed  her.    Tiiey 


were  now  on  a  field-path,  by  which  tlicy  were 
enabled  to  escape  the  road  back  to  Allington 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  distance,  and  Grace 
had  reached  a  stile  and  had  clambered  over  it 
before  Lily  had  caught  her. 

"You  must  not  go  away  by  yourself,"  said 
Lily. 

"I  don't  wish  to  go  away  by  myself." 

"I  want  you  to  stop  a  moment  and  listen  to 
me.  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong  in  this — wrong 
for  both  your  sakes.  You  believe  that  he  loves 
you?" 

"  I  thought  he  did  once  ;  and  if  he  has  come 
here  to  see  me  I  suppose  he  does  still." 

"If  that  be  the  case,  and  if  you  also  love 
him — " 

"  I  do.  I  make  no  mystery  about  that  to  you. 
I  do  love  him  with  all  my  heart.  I  love  him 
to-day,  now  that  I  believe  him  to  be  here,  and 
that  I  suppose  I  shall  see  him  perhaps  this  very 
afternoon.  And  I  loved  him  yesterday,  when 
I  thought  that  I  should  never  see  him  again.  I 
do  love  him.  I  do.  I  love  him  so  well  that  I 
will  never  do  him  an  injury." 

"  That  being  so,  if  he  makes  you  an  offer  3*011 
are  bound  to  accept  it.  I  do  not  think  that  you 
have  an  alternative." 

"I  have  an  alternative,  and  I  shall  use  it. 
Why  don't  you  take  my  cousin  John  ?" 

"  Because  I  like  somebody  else  better.  If 
you  have  got  as  good  a  reason  I  won't  say  an- 
other word  to  yon." 

"And  W'hy  don't  you  take  that  otl\er  person  ?" 

"Because  I  can  not  trust  his  love;  that  is 
why.  It  is  not  very  kind  of  you,  opening  my 
sores  afresh,  when  I  am  trying  to  heal  yours." 

"Oh,  Lily,  am  I  unkind — unkind  to  you, 
who  have  been  so  generous  to  me  ?" 

"  I'll  forgive  you  all  that  and  a  deal  more  if 
you  will  only  listen  to  me  and  try  to  take  my 
advice.  Because  this  major  of  3-ours  does  a 
generous  thing,  whicli*  is  for  the  good  of  you 
both — the  infinite  good  of  both  of  you — you 
are  to  emulate  his  generosity  by  doing  a  thing 
which  will  be  for  the  good  of  neither  of  you. 
That  is  about  it.  Yes,  it  is,  Grace.  You  can 
not  donbt  that  he  has  been  meaning  this  for 
some  time  past :  and  of  course,  if  he  looks  upon 
you  as  his  own — and  I  dare  say,  if  the  whole 
truth  is  to  be  told,  he  does — " 

"  But  I  am  not  his  own." 

"Yes,  you  are,  in  one  sense;  you  have  just 
said  so  with  a  great  deal  of  energy.  And  if  it 
is  so — let  me  see,  where  was  I?" 

"Oh,  Lil}-,  you  need  not  mind  where  you 
were." 

"But  I  do  mind,  and  I  hate  to  be  interrupted 
in  my  arguments.  Yes,  just  that.  If  he  saw 
his  cow  sick,  he'd  try  to  doctor  the  cow  in  her 
sickness.  He  sees  that  you  are  sick,  and  of 
course  he  comes  to  your  relief." 

"I  am  not  Major  Grantly 's  cow." 

' '  Yes,  you  are. " 

"Nor  his  dog,  nor  his  ox,  nor  his  ass,  nor 
any  thing  that  is  his,  except — except,  Lih",  the 
dearest  friend  that  he  has  on  the  face  of  the 


130 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


earth.  He  can  not  have  a  fiiend  that  will  go 
further  for  him  than  I  will.  He  will  never 
know  how  far  I  will  j^o  to  serve  him.  You  don't 
know  his  jieople.  Nor  do  I  know  them.  But 
I  know  what  tlicy  are.  His  sister  is  married  to 
a  marquis." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  said  Lily, 
shnriily.  "  If  she  were  married  to  an  archduke, 
what  ditVorencc  would  that  make?" 

"And  they  are  proud  people — all  of  them — 
and  rich  ;  and  they  live  with  high  persons  in  the 
world." 

"  I  didn't  care  though  they  lived  with  the 
royal  fiimily,  and  had  the  Prince  of  Wales  for 
their  bosom  friend.  It  only  shows  how  much 
better  he  is  than  they  arc." 

"But  think  what  my  family  is — how  we  arc 
situated.  "When  my  father  was  sim])ly  i)oor  I 
ditl  not  cai"c  about  it,  bccanse  he  has  been  born 
and  bred  a  gentleman.  But  now  he  is  dis- 
graced. Yes,  Lily,  he  is.  I  am  bound  to  say 
so,  at  any  rate  to  myself,  when  I  am  thinking 
of  JIajor  Grantly  ;  and  I  will  not  carry  that  dis- 
grace into  a  family  which  would  feel  it  so  keen- 
ly as  they  would  do."  Lily,  however,  went  on 
with  her  arguments,  and  was  still  arguing  when 
they  turned  the  corner  of  the  lane  and  came 
upon  Lily's  uncle  and  the  major  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SHOAVIXG    WHAT    MA.TOR    GRANTLY    DID    AFTER 
HIS    AVALK. 

In  going  down  from  the  church  to  the  Small 
House  Lily  Dale  had  all  the  conversation  to 
herself.  During  some  portion  of  the  way  the 
path  was  only  broad  enough  for  two  persons, 
and  here  Major  Grantly  walked  by  Lily's  side, 
while  Grace  followed  them.  Then  they  found 
their  way  into  the  house,  and  Lily  made  her  lit- 
tle speech  to  her  mother  about  catching  the  ma- 
jor. "Yes,  my  dear,  I  have  seen  Major  Grantly 
before,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  "I  suppose  he  has 
met  you  on  the  road.  But  I  did  not  expect 
that  any  of  you  would  have  returned  so  soon." 
Some  little  explanation  followed  as  to  the  squire, 
and  as  to  ]Major  Grantly's  walk,  and  after  that 
the  great  thing  was  to  leave  the  two  lovers  alone. 
"You  will  dine  here,  of  course.  Major  Grant- 
ly," Mrs.  Dale  said.  But  this  he  declined.  He 
had  learned,  he  said,  that  there  was  a  night- 
train  up  to  London,  and  he  thought  that  he 
■would  return  to  town  by  that.  He  had  intend- 
ed, when  he  left  London,  to  get  back  as  soon 
as  possible.  Then  Mrs.  Dale,  having  hesitated 
for  two  or  three  seconds,  got  up  and  left  the 
room,  and  Lily  followed.  "It  seems  A-ery  odd 
and  abrupt,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  to  her  daughter, 
"but  I  suppose  it  is  best."  "Of  course  it  is 
best,  mamma.  Do  as  one  would  be  done  by — 
that's  the  only  rule.  It  will  be  much  better  for 
her  that  she  should  have  it  over." 

Grace  was  seated  on  a  sofa,  and  Major  Grant- 
ly got  up  from  his  chair,  and  came  and  stood 


opposite  to  her.  "Grace,"  he  said,  "I  hope 
you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  coming  down  to 
see  you  here." 

"No,  I  am  not  angry,"  she  said. 

"I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  it,  and 
your  friend,  Miss  Prettynian,  knew  that  I  was 
coming.     She  quite  approves  of  my  coming." 

"  She  has  written  to  me,  but  did  not  tell  me 
of  it,"  said  Grace,  not  knowing  what  other  an- 
swer to  make. 

"No — she  could  not  have  done  that.  She 
had  no  authority.  I  only  mention  her  name  be- 
cause it  will  have  weight  with  you,  and  because 
I  luvve  not  done  that  which,  under  other  circum- 
stances, perhaps,  I  should  have  been  bound  to 
do.     I  have  not  seen  your  father." 

"  Poor  papa  !"  said  Grace. 

"  I  have  felt  that  at  the  present  moment  I 
could  not  do  so  with  any  success.  It  has  not 
come  of  any  want  of  respect  either  for  him  or  for 
you.  Of  course,  Grace,  you  know  why  I  am 
here  ?"  He  paused,  and  then  remembering  that 
he  had  no  right  to  expect  an  answer  to  such  a 
question,  he  continued,  "I  have  come  liere, 
dearest  Grace,  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  and  to 
be  a  mother  to  Edith.  I  know  that  you  love 
Edith." 

"I  do  indeed." 

"And  I  have  hoped  sometimes — though  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  say  so — but  I  have  hoped 
and  almost  thought  sometimes,  that  you  have 
been  willing  to — to  love  me,  too.  It  is  better 
to  tell  the  truth  simply,  is  it  not  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Grace. 

"And  therefore,  and  because  I  love  you  dear- 
ly myself,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  be  tny  wife." 
Saying  which  he  opened  out  his  hand,  and  held 
it  to  her.  But  she  did  not  take  it.  "Tliere  is 
my  hand,  Grace.  If  your  heart  is  as  I  would 
have  it  you  can  give  me  yours,  and  I  shall  want 
nothing  else  to  make  me  happy."  But  still  she 
made  no  motion  toward  granting  him  his  re- 
quest. "If  I  have  been  too  sudden,"  he  said, 
"you  must  forgive  me  for  that.  I  have  been 
sudden  and  abrupt ;  but  as  things  are  no  other 
way  has  been  open  to  me.  Can  you  not  bring 
yourself  to  give  me  some  answer,  Grace?"  His 
hand  had  now  fallen  again  to  his  side,  but  he 
was  still  standing  before  her. 

She  had  said  no  word  to  him  as  yet,  except 
that  one  in  which  she  had  acknowledged  her  love 
for  his  child,  and  had  expressed  no  surprise,  ' 
even  in  her  countenance,  at  his  proposal.  And 
yet  the  idea  that  he  should  do  such  a  thing,  I 
since  the  idea  that  he  certainly  would  do  it  had 
become  clear  to  her,  had  filled  her  with  a  world 
of  surprise.  No  girl  ever  lived  with  any  beauty 
belonging  to  her  who  had  a  smaller  knowledge 
of  her  own  possession  than  Grace  Crawley.  Nor 
had  she  the  slightest  pride  in  her  own  acquire- 
ments. That  she  had  been  taught  in  many 
things  more  than  had  been  taught  to  other  girls 
had  come  of  her  poverty  and  of  the  desolation 
of  her  home.  She  had  learned  to  read  Greek 
and  Italian  because  there  had  been  nothing  else 
for  her  to  do  in  that  sad  house.     And,  subsc- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


131 


quontlv,  accuracy  of  knowledge  had  been  nec- 
essarv  for  tlic  earning  of  her  bread.  I  tliink 
that  Grace  had  at  times  been  weak  enough  to 
envy  the  idleness  and  almost  to  envy  the  igno- 
rance of  otlier  girls.  Her  figure  was  light,  j)er- 
fect  in  symmetry,  full  of  grace  at  all  points;  but 
she  iiad  thought  nothing  of  her  figure,  remem- 
bering only  the  poverty  of  her  dress,  but  remem- 
bering also  with  a  brave  resolution  that  she  would 
never  be  ashamed  of  it.  And  as  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Major  Grantly  had  begun  and  had 
grown,  and  as  she  had  learned  to  feel  uncon- 
sciously that  his  company  was  pleasanter  to  her 
than  that  of  any  other  person  she  knew,  she  h.ad 
still  told  herself  that  any  thing  like  love  must 
be  out  of  the  question.  But  then  words  had 
been  siioken,  and  there  had  been  glances  in  his 
eye,  and  a  tone  in  his  voice,  and  a  touch  upon 
his  fingers,  of  which  she  could  not  altogether 
refuse  to  accept  tlie  meaning.  And  others  had 
spoken  to  her  of  it,  the  two  Miss  Prettymans 
and  her  friend  Lily.  Yet  she  would  not  admit 
to  herself  tliat  it  could  be  so,  and  she  would  not 
allow  herself  to  confess  to  hei'self  that  she  loved 
him.  Then  had  come  the  last  killing  misery  to 
which  her  father  had  been  subjected.  He  had 
been  accused  of  stealing  money,  and  had  been 
committed  to  be  tried  for  the  theft.  From  that 
moment,  at  any  rate,  any  hope,  if  there  had 
been  a  hojie,  must  be  crushed.  But  she  swore 
to  herself  bravely  that  tliere  had  been  no  such 
hope.  And  slie  assured  herself  also  that  no- 
thing had  passed  which  had  entitled  her  to  ex- 
pect any  thing  beyond  ordinary  friendship  from 
the  man  of  whom  she  certainly  had  thought 
much.  Even  if  those  touches  and  those  tones 
and  tiiose  glances  had  meant  any  thing,  all  such 
meaning  must  be  annihilated  by  this  disgrace 
which  had  come  upon  her.  She  might  know 
that  her  father  was  innocent ;  she  might  be  sure, 
at  any  rate,  that  he  had  been  innocent  in  inten- 
tion ;  but  the  world  thought  differently,  and  she, 
her  brothers  and  sister,  and  her  mother  and  her 
poor  father,  must  bend  to  the  world's  opinion. 
If  those  dangerous  joys  had  meant  any  thing, 
they  must  be  taken  as  meaning  nothing  more. 

Thus  siie  had  argued  with  herself,  and,  for- 
tified by  such  self-teachings,  she  had  come  down 
to  AUington.  Since  she  had  been  with  her 
friends  there  had  come  upon  her  from  day  to 
day  a  clear  conviction  that  her  arguments  had 
been  undoubtedly  true — a  clear  conviction  which 
had  been  very  cold  to  her  heart  in  sjiite  of  all 
her  courage.  She  had  expected  nothing,  hoped 
for  nothing,  and  yet  when  nothing  came  she 
was  sad.  She  thought  of  one  special  half  hour 
in  which  he  had  said  almost  all  that  he  might 
have  said — more  than  he  ought  to  have  said ; 
of  a  moment  during  which  her  hand  had  re- 
mained in  his  ;  of  a  certain  pressure  with  which 
lie  had  put  her  sliawl  upon  her  shoulders.  If 
he  had  only  written  to  her  one  word  to  tell  her 
that  he  believed  her  father  was  innocent !  But 
no  ;  she  had  no  right  to  expect  any  thing  from 
him.  And  then  Lily  had  ceased  to  talk  of  him, 
and  she  did  expect  nothing.    Now  he  was  there 


before  her,  asking  her  to  come  to  him  and  be 
his  wife.  Yes  ;  she  would  kiss  his  shoe-buckles, 
only  that  the  kissing  of  his  shoe-buckles  would 
bring  upon  him  that  injury  which  he  should 
never  suffer  from  her  hands !  He  had  been  gen- 
erous, and  her  self-pride  was  satisfied.  But 
her  other  pride  was  touclied,  and  she  also  would 
be  generous.  "Can  you  not  bring  yourself  to 
give  me  some  answer?"  he  had  said  to  her.  Of 
course  she  must  give  him  an  answer,  but  how 
should  she  give  it  ? 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  saiil. 

"I  would  be  more  than  kind." 

"  So  you  are.  Kind  is  a  cold  word  when 
used  to  such  a  friend  at  such  a  time." 

"  I  would  be  every  thing  on  earth  to  you  that 
a  man  can  be  to  a  woman." 

"  I  know  I  ought  to  thank  you  if  I  knew 
how.  JNIy  heart  is  full  of  thanks ;  it  is,  in- 
deed." 

"  And  is  there  no  room  for  love  there?" 

"There  is  no  room  for  love  in  our  house, 
Major  Grantly.     You  have  not  seen  papa." 

"No;  but,  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  do  so  at 
once." 

"  It  would  do  no  good — none.  I  only  asked 
you  because  you  can  hardly  know  how  sad  is 
our  state  at  home." 

"  But  I  can  not  see  that  that  need  deter  you 
if  you  can  love  me. " 

"Can  you  not?  If  you  saw  him,  and  the 
house,  and  my  mother,  you  would  not  say  so. 
In  the  Bible  it  is  said  of  some  season  tliat  it 
is  not  a  time  for  marrying,  or  for^.  giving  in 
marriage.     And  so  it  is  with  us." 

"  I  am  not  pressing  you  as  to  a  day.  I  only 
ask  you  to  say  that  you  will  be  engaged  to  me — 
so  that  I  may  tell  my  own  people,  and  let  it  be 
known." 

"I  understand  all  that.  I  know  how  good 
you  are.  But,  Major  Grantly,  you  must  under- 
stand me  also  when  I  assure  you  that  it  can  not 
be  so." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  refuse  me  alto- 
gether ?" 

"  Yes ;  altogether." 

"And  why?" 

"  Must  I  answer  that  question  ?  Ought  I  to 
be  made  to  answer  it?  But  I  will  tell  you 
fairly,  without  touching  on  any  thing  else,  that 
I  feel  that  we  are  all  disgraced,  and  that  I  will 
not  take  disgrace  into  another  family." 

"  Grace,  do  you  love  me?" 

"  I  love  no  one  now — that  is,  as  you  mean. 
I  can  love  no  one.  I  have  no  room  for  any 
feeling  except  for  my  father  and  mother,  and 
for  us  all.  I  should  not  be  here  now  but  that 
I  save  my  mother  the  bread  that  I  should  eat  at 
home." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Yes,  it  is  as  bad  as  that.  It  is  much  worse 
than  that,  if  you  knew  it  all.  You  can  not  con- 
ceive how  low  we  have  fallen.  And  now  they 
tell  me  that  my  father  will  be  found  guilty,  and 
will  be  sent  to  prison.  Putting  ourselves  out 
of  tlie  question,  what  would  you  think  of  a  girl 


132 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


vlio  could  cnpn{:?c  herself  to  any  man  under 
such  ciiciinist:inccs?  What  would  vou  think 
of  a  girl  who  would  allow  herself  to  be  in  love 
in  such  a  position  ?  Had  I  been  ten  times  en- 
gaged to  }ou  I  would  have  broken  it  oil"."  Then 
she  got  up  to  leave  him. 

But  he  stop])ed  her,  holding  her  by  the  arm. 
"  AVliat  you  have  said  will  make  me  say  what  I 
certainly  should  never  have  said  without  it.  I 
declare  that  we  are  cnKaged." 

"No,  we  are  not,"  said  Grace. 

"You  have  told  mo  that  you  loved  me." 

"  I  never  told  you  so." 

"There  are  other  ways  of  speaking  than  the 
voice ;  and  I  will  boast  to  you,  though  to  no 
one  else,  that  you  have  told  me  so.     I  believe 


to  you,  and  I  shall  think  you  false  ff  I  hear  that 
you  listen  to  another  man.  Now,  good-by, 
Grace — my  own  Grace!" 

"No,  I  am  not  your  own,"  she  said,  through 
her  tears. 

"  You  are  my  own,  my  very  own  !  God  bless 
you,  dear,  dear,  dearest  Grace !  You  shall  hear 
from  me  in  a  d.ay  or  two,  and  shall  see  me  as 
soon  as  this  horrid  trial  is  over."  Then  he  took 
her  in  his  arms  before  she  could  escape  from 
him,  and  kissed  her  forehead  and  her  lips  while 
she  struggled  in  his  arms.  After  that  he  left 
the  room  and  the  house  as  quickly  as  he  could, 
and  was  seen  no  more  of  the  Dales  upon  that 
occasion. 


you  love  me.     I  shall  hold  myself  as  engaged  /slie  loved  him  !     Was  he  not  a  prince  of  men? 

He  had  behaved  badly,  of  course ;  but  had  any 
man  ever  behaved  so  badly  before  in  so  divine 
a  way?  Was  it  not  a  thousand  pities  that  she 
should  be  driven  to  deny  any  thing  to  a  lover 
who  so  richly  deserved  every  thing  that  could 
be  given  to  him?  He  had  kissed  her  hand  as 
he  let  her  go,  and  now,  not  knowing  what  she 
did,  she  kissed  the  spot  on  which  she  had  felt 
his  lips.  His  arm  had  been  round  her  waist, 
and  the  old  frock  whicli  she  wore  should  be  kept 
by  her  forever,  because  it  had  been  so  graced. 

What  was  she  now  to  say  to  Lily  and  to  Lily's 
mother?  Of  one  thing  there  was  no  doubt. 
She  would  never  tell  them  of  her  lover's  wicked 
audacity.  That  was  a  secret  never  to  be  im- 
parted to  any  ears.  She  would  keep  her  re- 
sentment to  herself,  and  not  ask  the  i>rotection 
of  any  vicarious  wrath.  He  could  never  so 
sin  again,  that  was  certain  ;  and  she  would 
keep  all  knowledge  and  memory  of  the  sin  for 
her  own  purjioses.  But  how  could  it  be  that 
such  a  man  as  that,  one  so  good,  though  so  sin- 
ful, so  glorious,  though  so  great  a  trespasser, 
should  have  come  to  such  a  girl  as  her  and 
have  asked  for  her  love  ?  Then  she  thought  of 
her  father's  poverty  and  the  misery  of  her  own 
condition,  and  declared  to  herself  that  it  was 
very  wonderful. 

Lily  was  the  first  to  enter  the  room,  and  she, 
before  she  did  so,  learned  from  the  servant  that 
Major  Grantly  had  left  the  house.  "  I  heard 
the  door,  miss,  and  then  I  saw  *he  top  of  his 
hat  out  of  the  pantry  window."  Armed  with 
this  certain  information  Lily  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  found  Grace  in  the  act  of  rising 
from  the  sofa. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you  ?"  said  Lily. 
"  No  ;  not  at  all.     I  am  glad  3'ou  have  come. 
Kiss  me,  and  be  good  to  me."     And  she  twined 
her  arms  about  Lily  and  embraced  her. 

"  Am  I  not  always  good  to  you,  you  simple- 
ton?    Has  he  been  good  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 
"And  have  you  been  good  to  him?" 
"As  good  as  I  knew  how,  Lily." 
"  And  where  is  he  ?" 

"  He  has  gone  away.  I  shall  never  see  him 
any  more,  Lily." 

Then  she  hid  her  face   upon    her   friend's 


CHAPTER  XXXr. 

SIIOAVIXG    now    MAJOR    GRANTLY    KKTURNED   TO 
GUESTWICK. 

Grace,  when  she  was  left  alone,  threw  her- 
self upon  the  sofii,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
She  was  weeping  almost  hysterically,  and  had 
been  utterly  dismayed  and  frightened  by  her 
lover's  impetuosity.  Things  had  gone  after  a 
fashion  which  her  imagination  had  not  painted 
to  her  as  possible.  Surely  she  had  the  power 
to  refuse  tlie  man  if  she  pleased.  And  yet  she 
felt  as  she  lay  there  weeping  tliat  she  did  in 
truth  belong  to  him  as  part  of  his  goods,  and 
that  her  generosity  had  been  foiled.  She  had 
especially  resolved  that  she  would  not  confess  to 
any  love  for  him.  She  had  made  no  such  con- 
fession. She  had  guarded  herself  against  doing 
so  with  all  the  care  which  she  knew  how  to  use. 
But  he  had  assumed  the  fact,  and  she  had  been 
unable  to  deny  it.  Could  she  have  lied  to  him, 
and  have  sworn  that  she  did  not  love  him?  Could 
she  have  so  perjured  hei-self,  even  in  support 
of  her  generosity  ?  Yes,  she  Avould  have  done 
so — so  she  told  herself — if  a  moment  had  been 
given  to  her  for  thought.  She  ought  to  have 
done  so,  and  she  blamed  herself  for  being  so 
little  prepared  for  the  occasion.  The  lie  would 
be  useless  now.  Lideed,  she  would  have  no 
opportunity  for  telling  it ;  for  of  course  she 
would  not  answer — would  not  even  read  his 
letter.     Though  he  might  know  that  she  loved 


him,  yet  she  would  not  be  his  wife.  He  had 
forced  her  secret  from  her,  but  he  could  not 
force  her  to  marry  him.  She  did  love  him,  but 
he  should  never  be  disgraced  by  her  love. 

After  a  while  she  was  able  to  think  of  his  con- 
duct, and  she  believed  that  she  ought  to  be  very 
angry  with  him.  He  had  taken  her  roughly  in 
his  arms,  and  had  insulted  her.  He  had  forced 
a  kiss  from  her.  She  had  felt  his  arms  warm 
and  close  and  strong  about  her,  and  had  not 
known  whether  she  was  in  paradise  or  in  pur- 
gatory. She  was  very  angry  with  him.  She 
would  send  back  his  letter  to  him  without  read- 
ing it — without  oi)Cning  it,  if  that  might  be  pos- 
sible. He  had  done  that  to  her  which  nothing 
^uld  justify.     But  yet — yet — yet  how  dearly 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


133 


shoulder  and  broke  forth  again  into  hysterical 
tears. 

"  But  tell  me,  Grace,  what  he  said — that  is, 
if  you  mean  to  tell  me  !" 

"  I  will  tell  you  every  thing — that  is,  every 
thing  I  can."  And  Grace  blushed  as  she  thought 
of  the  one  secret  which  she  certainly  would  not 
tell. 

*'  Has  he — has  he  done  what  I  said  he  would 
do?  Come,  speak  out  boldly.  Has  he  asked 
you  to  be  his  wife  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Grace,  barely  whispering  the 
word.  f 

"And  you  have  accepted  him  ?" 

"  No,  Lily,  I  have  not.  Indeed  I  have  not. 
I  did  not  know  how  to  speak,  because  I  was  sur- 
prised ;  and  he,  of  course,  could  say  what  he 
liked.  But  I  told  him  as  well  as  I  could  that 
I  would  not  marry  him." 

"  And  why — did  you  tell  him  why  ?" 

"Yes ;  because  of  papa !" 

"  Then,  if  he  is  the  man  I  take  him  to  be, 
that  answer  will  go  for  nothing.  Of  course 
he  knew  all  that  before  he  came  here.  He 
did  not  think  you  were  an  heiress  with  forty 
thousand  pounds.  If  he  is  in  earnest  that  will 
go  for  nothing.     And  I  think  he  is  in  earnest." 

"  And  so  was  I  in  earnest." 

"Well,  Grace — we  shall  see." 

"  I  suppose  I  may  have  a  will  of  my  own, 
Lily?" 

"Do  not  be  so  sure  of  that.  Women  are  not 
allowed  to  have  wills  of  their  own  on  all  occa- 
sions. Some  man  comes  in  a  girl's  way,  and 
she  gets  to  be  fond  of  him  just  because  he  does 
come  in  her  way.  Well ;  when  that  has  taken 
place,  she  has  no  alternative  but  to  be  taken  if 
he  chooses  to  take  her ;  or  to  be  left  if  he 
chooses  to  leave  her." 

"Lily,  don't  say  that." 

"But  I  do  say  it.  A  man  may  assure  him- 
self that  he  will  find  for  himself  a  wife  who 
shall  be  learned,  or  beautiful,  or  six  feet  high, 
if  he  wishes  it,  or  who  has  red  hair,  or  red  eyes, 
or  red  cheeks — just  what  he  pleases ;  and  he 
may  go  about  till  he  finds  it,  as  you  can  go 
about  and  match  your  worsteds.  You  are  a 
fool  if  you  buy  a  color  you  don't  want.  But 
we  can  never  match  our  worsteds  for  tliat  other 
piece  of  work,  but  are  obliged  to  take  any  col- 
or that  comes — and  therefore  it  is  tliat  we  make 
such  a  jumble  of  it  I  Here's  mamma.  We 
must  not  be  philosophical  before  her.  Mamma, 
Major  Grantly  has — skedaddled." 

"  Oh,  Lily,  what  a  word  !" 

"But,  oh,  mamma,  what  a  thing!  Fancy 
his  going  away  and  not  saying  a  word  to  any 
body !" 

"If  he  had  any  thing  to  say  to  Grace  I  sup- 
pose he  said  it." 

"  He  asked  her  to  marry  him,  of  course. 
We  none  of  us  had  any  doubt  about  that.  He 
swore  to  her  that  she  and  none  but  she  should 
be  his  wife — and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But 
he  seems  to  have  done  it  in  the  most  prosaic  way 
— and  now  he  has  gone  awny  without  saying  a 


word  to  any  of  us.  I  shall  n-cvcr  speak  to  him 
again — unless  Grace  asks  me." 

"  Grace,  my  dear,  may  I  congratulate  yoli  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Dale. 

Grace  did  not  answer,  as  Lily  was  too  quick 
for  her.  "  Oh,  she  has  refused  him,  of  course. 
But  Major  Grantly  is  a  man  of  too  much  sense 
to  expect  that  he  should  succeed  the  first  time. 
Let  me  see;  this  is  the  fourteenth.  These 
clocks  run  fourteen  days,  and,  therefore,  you 
may  expect  him  again  about  the  twenty-eighth. 
For  myself,  I  think  you  are  giving  him  an  im- 
mense deal  of  unnecessary  trouble,  and  that  if 
he  left  you  in  the  lurch  it  would  only  serve  you 
right ;  but  you  have  the  world  with  you,  I'm 
told.  A  girl  is  supposed  to  tell  a  man  two  fibs 
before  she  may  tell  him  one  truth." 

"I  told  him  no  fib,  Lily.  I  told  him  that  I 
would  not  marry  him,  and  I  will  not." 

"But  why  not,  dear  Grace?" said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"  Because  the  people  say  that  pajia  is  a 
thief!"  Having  said  this  Grace  walked  slowly 
out  of  the  room,  and  neither  INIrs.  Dale  nor 
Lily  attempted  to  follow  her. 

"  She's  as  good  as  gold,"  said  Lily,  when  the 
door  was  closed. 

"And  he — what  of  him  ?" 

"I  think  he  is  good,  too  ;  but  she  has  told 
me  nothing  yet  of  what  he  has  said  to  her. 
He  must  be  good,  or  he  would  not  have  come 
down  here  after  her.  But  I  don't  wonder  at 
his  coming,  because  she  is  so  beautiful !  Once 
or  twice  as  we  were  walking  back  to-day  I 
thought  her  face  was  the  most  lovely  that  I  had 
ever  seen.  And  did  you  see  her  just  now,  as 
she  spoke  of  her  father?" 

"Oh  yes  ;  I  saw  her." 

"Think  what  she  will  be  in  two  or  three 
years'  time,  when  she  becomes  a  woman.  She 
talks  French,  and  Italian,  and  Hebrew  for  any 
thing  that  I  know ;  and  she  is  perfectly  beauti- 
ful. I  never  saw  a  more  lovely  figure — and 
she  has  spirit  enough  for  a  goddess.  I  don't 
think  that  Jlajor  Grantly  is  such  a  fool  after 
all." 

"  I  never  took  him  for  a  fool  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  all  his  own  people  do — or 
they  will,  when  they  hear  of  it.  But,  mamma, 
she  will  grow  to  be  big  enough  to  walk  atop  of 
all  the  Lady  Hartletops  in  England.  It  will 
all  come  right  at  last." 

"You  think  it  will?" 

"Oh  yes.  Why  should  it  not?  If  he  is 
worth  having  it  will — and  I  think  he  is  worth 
having.  He  must  wait  till  this  horrid  trial  is 
over.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  Grace  thinks  that 
her  fiither  will  be  convicted." 

"But  he  can  not  have  taken  the  money." 

"I  think  he  took  it,  and  I  think  it  wasn't 
his.  But  I  don't  think  he  stole  it.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  can  understand  the  diftcr- 
ence." 

"I  am  afraid  a  jury  won't  understand  it." 

"A  jury  of  men  will  not.  I  wish  they  could 
put  you  and  me  on  it,  mamma.  I  would  take 
my   best   boots    and   eat   them    down   to    the 


134 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


heels  for  Grace's   snke,  and  for  Major  Grant- 
Iv's.     What  a  Rood-looking  man  he  is  !" 

"  Yfs,  he  is." 

'•And  so  like  a  penileman  !  I'll  tell  you 
what,  inauinia  ;  we  Avon't  say  any  thing  to  Jicr 
about  him  for  the  present.  Her  heart  will  he 
so  full  she  will  be  driven  to  talk,  and  we  can 
coniturt  her  better  in  that  way."  The  mother 
and  daughter  agreed  to  act  upon  these  tactics, 
and  nothing  more  was  said  to  Grace  about  her 
lover  on  that  evening. 

Major  Grantly  walked  from  Mrs.  Dale's  house 
to  the  inn,  and  ordered  his  gig,  and  drove  him- 
self out  of  Allington,  almost  witliout  remember- 
ing wlicrc  he  was  or  whither  he  was  going.  He 
was  tliinking  solely  of  what  had  just  occurred, 
and  of  what,  on  his  part,  sliould  follow  as  the 
result  of  tiiat  meeting.  Half  at  least  of  the 
noble  dfcds  done  in  this  world  arc  due  to  emu- 
lation rather  than  to  the  native  nobility  of  the 
actors.  A  young  man  leads  a  forlorn  hope  be- 
cause another  young  man  has  offered  to  do  so. 
Jones  in  tlic  liunting-field  rides  at  an  impracti- 
cable fence  because  he  is  told  that  Smith  took 
it  three  years  ago.  And  Walker  puts  his 
name  down  for  ten  guineas  at  a  charitable 
'dinner  wiien  he  hears  Tiiompson's  read  out 
for  five.  And  in  this  case  the  generosity  and 
self-denial  shown  by  Grace  Avarmed  and  cher- 
ished similar  virtues  within  her  lover's  breast. 
Some  few  weeks  ago  Major  Grantly  had  been 
in  doubt  as  to  what  his  duty  required  of  him  in 
reference  to  Grace  Crawley ;  but  he  had  no 
doubt  whatsoever  now.  In  the  fervor  of  his 
admiraiion  he  would  have  gone  straight  to  the 
archdeacon,  had  it  been  possible,  and  have  told 
him  wliat  he  had  done  and  what  he  intended  to 
do.  Notliing  now  should  stop  him^no  consid- 
eration, tliat  is,  either  as  regarded  money  or  po- 
sition. He  had  pledged  himself  solemnly,  and 
he  was  very  glad  that  he  bad  pledged  himself. 
He  would  write  to  Grace  and  explain  to  her 
that  he  trusted  altogether  in  her  father's  honor 
and  innocence,  but  that  no  consideration  as  to 
that  ouglit  to  influence  either  him  or  her  in  any 
way.  If,  independently  of  her  father,  she  could 
bring  herself  to  come  to  him  and  be  liis  wife, 
she  was  bound  to  do  so  now,  let  the  position  of 
lier  fatlier  be  what  it  might.  And  thus,  as  he 
drove  his  gig  back  toward  Guestwick,  he  com- 
jiosed  a  very  pretty  letter  to  the  lady  of  his  love. 

And  as  he  went,  at  the  corner  of  the  lane 
which  led  from  the  main  road  up  to  Guestwick 
Cottage,  he  again  came  upon  John  Eames,  who 
was  also  returning  to  Guestwick.  There  had 
been  a  few  words  spoken  between  Lady  Julia 
and  Johnny  respecting  Major  Grantly  after  the 
girls  had  left  the  cottage,  and  Johnny  had  been 
persuaded  that  the  strange  visitor  to  Allington 
could  have  no  connection  with  his  archenemy. 
"And  why  has  he  gone  to  Allington?"  John 
demanded,  somewhat  sternly,  of  his  hostess. 

"Well;  if  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  has  gone 
there  to  see  your  cousin,  Grace  Crawley." 

"  He  told  me  tliat  he  knew  Grace,"  said  John, 
looking  as  though  he  were  conscious  of  his  own 


ingenuity  in  putting  two  and  two  together  very 
cleverly. 

"Your  cousin  Grace  is  a  very  pretty  girl," 
said  Lady  Julia. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  her,"  said 
Johnny. 

"W'liy,  you  saw  her  just  this  minute,"  said 
Lady  Julia. 

"I  didn't  look  at  her,"  said  Johnny.  There- 
fore, when  he  again  met  Major  Grantly,  having 
continued  to  put  two  and  two  together  with 
great  ingenuity,  he  felt  quite  sure  that  the  man 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  archenemy,  and  he 
determined  to  be  gracious.  "Did  you  find  them 
at  home  at  Allington  ?"  he  said,  raising  his  hat. 

"How  do  you  do  again?"  said  the  major. 
"Yes,  I  found  your  friend  Mrs.  Dale  at  home." 

"  But  not  her  dauglitcr  or  my  cousin  ?  They 
were  up  there  —  where  I've  cimie  from.  But 
perhaps  they  had  got  back  before  you  left." 

"I  saw  them  both.  They  found  me  on  the 
road  with  Mr.  Dale." 

"What — the  squire?  Then  you  have  seen 
every  body  ?" 

"Ever}'  body  I  wished  to  see  at  Allington." 

' '  But  you  wouldn't  stay  at  the  '  Red  Lion  ?' " 

"  W^ell,  no.  I  remembered  that  I  wanted  to 
get  back  to  London  ;  and  as  I  had  seen  my 
friends,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  hurry  away." 

"  Y'ou  knew  Mrs.  Dale  before,  then  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  never  saw  her  in  my  life 
before.  But  I  knew  the  old  squire  when  I  was 
a  boy.  However,  I  should  have  said  friend.  I 
went  to  see  one  friend,  and  I  saw  her." 

John  Eames  perceived  that  his  companion 
put  a  strong  emphasis  on  tlic  word  "her,"  as 
though  he  were  determined  to  declare  boldly  that 
he  had  gone  to  Allington  solely  to  see  Grace 
Crawley.  He  had  not  the  slightest  objection  to 
recognizing  in  Major  Grantly  a  suitor  for  his 
cousin's  hand.  He  could  only  reflect  what  an 
unusually  fortunate  girl  Grace  must  be  if  sucli 
a  thing  could  be  true.  Of  those  poor  Crawleys 
he  had  only  heard  from  time  to  time  that  their 
misfortunes  were  as  numerous  as  the  sands  on 
the  sea-shore,  and  as  unsusceptible  of  any  fixed 
and  permanent  arrangement.  But,  as  regarded 
Grace,  here  would  be  a  very  permanent  ar- 
rangement. Tidings  had  reached  him  that 
Grace  was  a  great  scholar,  but  he  had  never 
heard  much  of  her  beauty.  It  must  probably 
be  the  case  that  Major  Grantly  was  fond  of 
Greek.  There  was,  lie  reminded  himself,  no 
accounting  for  tastes ;  but  as  notliing  could  be 
more  respectable  than  sjuch  an  alliance,  he 
thought  that  it  would  become  him  to  be  civil  to 
the  major. 

"I  hope  you  found  her  quite  well.  I  had 
barely  time  to  speak  to  her  myself." 

"Yes,  she  was  very  well.  This  is  a  sad  thing 
about  her  father." 

"  Very  sad, "  said  Johnny.  Perhaps  the  ma- 
jor had  lieard  about  the  accusation  for  the  first 
time  to-day,  and  was  going  to  find  an  escape 
on  that  plea.  If  such  was  tlic  case,  it  would 
not  be  so  well  to  be  particularly  civil. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


135 


' '  I  believe  Mr.prawley  is  a  cousin  of  yours  ?" 
said  the  major. 

"His  wife  is  my  mother's  first-cousin.  Their 
mothers  were  sisters." 

"  She  is  an  excellent  woman." 

"  I  believe  so.  I  don't  know  much  about 
them  myself-^that  is,  personally.  Of  course  I 
have  heard  of  this  charge  that  has  been  made 

;ainst  him.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  great 
shame." 

"Well,  I  can't  exactly  say  that  it  is  a  shame. 
I  do  not  know  that  there  has  been  any  thing 
done  with  a  feeling  of  persecution  or  of  cruelty. 
It  is  a  gi'eat  mystery,  and  we  must  have  it 
cleared  up  if  we  can." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  can  have  been  guilty," 
said  Johnny. 

"Certainly  not  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word.     I  heard  all  the  evidence  against  him." 

"Oh,  you  did?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  major.  "I  live  near  them 
in  Barsetshire,  and  I  am  one  of  his  bailsmen." 

"Then  you  are  an  old  friend,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  exactly  that;  but  circumstances  make 
me  very  much  interested  about  them.  I  fiincy 
that  the  check  was  left  in  iiis  house  by  accident, 
and  that  it  got  into  his  hands  he  didn't  know 
how,  and  that  when  he  used  it  he  thought  it  was 
his." 

"That's  queer,"  said  Jolinny. 

"He  is  ver}'  odd,  you  know." 

"  But  it's  a  kind  of  oddity  that  they  don't  like 
at  the  assizes." 

"The  great  cruelty  is,"  said  the  major,  "that 
whatever  may  be  the  result,  the  punishment  will 
fall  so  heavily  upon  his  wife  and  daughters.  I 
think  the  whole  county  ought  to  come  forward 
and  take  them  by  the  hand.  AVell,  good-by. 
I'll  drive  on,  as  I'm  a  little  in  a  hurry." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Johnny.  "I'm  very  glad  to 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you."  "  He's 
a  good  sort  of  a  fellow  after  all,"  he  said  to  him- 
self when  the  gig  had  passed  on.  "  He  wouldn't 
have  talked  in  that  wav  if  he  had  meant  to  hang 
back." 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


MR.  TOOGOOD. 


Mr.  Crawley  had  declared  to  Mr.  Robarts 
tliat  he  would  summon  no  legal  aid  to  his  as- 
sistance at  the  coming  trial.  The  reader  may, 
perhaps,  remember  the  impetuosity  with  which 
he  rejected  the  advice  on  this  subject  which  was 
conveyed  to  him  by  Mr.  Robarts  with  all  the 
authority  of  Archdeacon  Grantly's  name.  "Tell 
the  archdeacon,"  he  had  said,  "  that  I  will  have 
none  of  his  advice."  And  then  Mr.  Robarts  had 
left  him,  fully  convinced  that  any  further  inter- 
ference on  his  part  could  be  of  no  avail.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  words  which  had  then  been  spoken 
were  not  without  effect.  This  coming  trial  was, 
ever  present  to  Mr.  Crawley's  mind,  and  thougli,; 
when  driven  to  discuss  the  subject,  lie  would 
ipeak  of  it  with  high  spirit,  as  he  had  done  both 


to  the  bishop  and  to  Mr.  Robarts,  yet  in  his  long 
hours  of  privacy,  or  when  alone  with  his  wife, 
his  spirit  was  any  thing  but  high.  "  It  will  kill 
me,"  he  would  say  to  her.  "  I  shall  get  salva- 
tion thus.  Death  will  relieve  me,  and  I  shall 
never  be  called  upon  to  stand  before  those  cruel, 
eager  eyes."  Then  would  she  try  to  say  words 
of  comfort,  sometimes  soothing  him  as  though  he 
were  a  child,  and  at  others  bidding  him  be  a 
man,  and  remember  that  as  a  man  he  should 
have  sufficient  endurance  to  bear  the  eyes  of  any 
crowd  that  might  be  there  to  look  at  him. 

"I  think  I  will  go  up  to  London,"  he  said  to 
her  one  evening,  very  soon  after  the  day  of  Mr. 
Robarts's  visit. 

"Go  up  to  London,  Josiah  !"  Mr.  Crawley 
had  not  been  up  to  London  once  since  they  had 
been  settled  at  Hogglestock,  and  this  sudden 
resolution  on  his  part  frightened  his  wife.  "  Go 
up  to  London,  dearest !  and  why  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  why.  They  all  say  that  I 
should  speak  to  some  man  of  the  law  whom  I 
may  trust  about  this  coming  trial.  I  trust  no 
one  in  these  parts.  Not,  mark  you,  that  I  say 
that  they  are  untrustworthy.  God  forbid  that 
I  sliould  so  speak  or  even  so  think  of  men  whom 
I  know  not !  But  the  matter  has  become  so 
common  in  men's  mouths  at  Barchester  and  at 
Silverbridge  that  I  can  not  endure  to  go  among 
them  and  to  talk  of  it.  I  will  go  up  to  London, 
and  I  will  see  your  cousin,  Mr.  John  Toogood, 
of  Gray's  Inn."  Now  in  this  scheme  there  was 
an  amount  of  everyday  prudence  which  startled 
]Mrs.  Crawley  almost  as  much  as  did  the  pros- 
pect of  the  difficulties  to  be  overcome  if  the 
journey  were  to  be  made.  Her  husband,  in  the 
first  place,  had  never  once  seen  Mr.  John  Too- 
good  ;  and  in  days  very  long  back,  when  he 
and  she  were  making  their  first  gallant  struggle 
— for  in  those  days  it  liad  been  gallant — down 
in  their  Cornish  curacy,  he  had  reprobated  cer- 


13G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


tain  Toogood  civilities — ]ivofessional  civilities — 
wliicli  had  hoen  iirofluied,  iicrliajis,  with  too  jilain 
an  intimation  that  on  the  score  of  relationshi])  tlic 
professional  work  shonld  be  done  withont  ])ay- 
nient.  The  ftlr.  Toogood  of  those  days,  who 
had  been  Mrs.  Crawley's  nncle,  and  the  father 
of  Mrs.  Eamcs  and  grandfather  of  our  friend 
Johnny  Eames,  had  been  much  angered  by 
some  correspondence  which  had  grown  uj)  be- 
tween him  and  Mr.  Crawley,  and  from  that  day 
there  had  been  a  cessation  of  all  intercourse  be- 
tween the  families.  Since  tliosc  days  that  Too- 
good  had  been  gathered  to  the  ancient  Toogoods 
of  old,  and  the  son  reigned  on  tlic  family  throne 
in  Raymond's  Buildings.  The  ]n-esent  Too- 
good  was  therefore  first-cousin  to  Mrs.  Crawley. 
But  there  had  been  no  intimacy  between  them. 
Mrs.  Crawley  had  not  seen  her  cousin  since  her 
marriage — as  indeed  she  had  seen  none  of  her 
relations,  having  been  estranged  from  them  by 
tlie  singular  bearing  of  her  husband.  She  knew 
that  her  cousin  stood  high  in  his  profession,  the 
firm  of  Toogood  and  Crump — Crump  and  Too- 
good  it  should  have  been  properly  called  in  these 
days — having  always  held  its  head  up  high  above 
all  dirty  work ;  and  she  felt  that  her  husband 
could  look  for  advice  from  no  better  source. 
But  how  would  such  a  one  as  he  manage  to  tell 
his  story  to  a  stranger  ?  Nay,  how  would  he 
find  his  way  alone  into  the  lawyer's  room,  to 
tell  his  story  at  all — so  strange  was  he  to  the 
world  ?  And  then  the  expense  !  "  If  you  do 
not  wish  me  to  apply  to  your  cousin,  say  so,  and 
there  sliall  be  an  end  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Crawley, 
in  an  angry  tone. 

"Of  course  I  would  wish  it.  I  believe  him 
to  be  an  excellent  man,  and  a  good  lawyer." 

"  Tiien  why  should  I  not  go  to  his  chambers  ? 
In  forma  pauperis  I  must  go  to  him,  and  must 
tell  him  so.  I  can  not  pay  him  for  the  labor  of 
his  counsel,  nor  for  such  minutes  of  his  time  as 
I  shall  use." 

"  Oh,  Joshua!  you  need  not  speak  of  that." 

"  But  I  must  speak  of  it.  Can  I  go  to  a  pro- 
fessional man,  who  keeps  as  it  were  his  slio]) 
open  for  those  who  may  think  fit  to  come,  and 
purchase  of  him,  and  take  of  his  goods,  and  aft- 
erward, when  the  goods  have  been  used,  tell 
him  that  I  have  not  the  price  in  my  hand?  I 
will  not  do  that,  Mary.  You  think  that  I  am 
mad,  that  I  know  not  what  I  do.  Yes — I  see 
it  in  your  eyes  ;  and  you  are  sometimes  partly 
right.  But  I  am  not  so  mad  but  that  I  know 
what  is  honest.  I  will  tell  your  cousin  that 
I  am  sore  straitened,  and  brought  down  into 
the  very  dust  by  misfortune.  And  I  will  be- 
seech him,  for  what  of  ancient  feeling  of  family 
he  may  bear  to  you,  to  listen  to  me  for  a  while. 
And  I  will  be  very  short,  and,  if  need  be,  will 
bide  his  time  patiently,  and  perhaps  he  may  say 
a  word  to  me  that  may  be  of  use." 

There  was  certainly  very  much  in  this  to  pro- 
voke Mrs.  Crawley.  It  was  not  only  that  she 
knew  well  that  her  cousin  would  give  ample  and 
immediate  attention,  and  lend  himself  thorough- 
ly to  tlic  matter  without  any  idea  of  payment — 


but  that  she  could  not  quitp  believe  that  her 
husband's  humility  was  true  humility.  She 
strove  to  believe  it,  but  knew  that  she  failed. 
After  all  it  was  only  a  feeling  on  her  part. 
There  was  no  argument  within  herself  about  it. 
An  unpleasant  taste  came  across  the  palate  of 
her  mind,  as  such  a  savor  will  sometimes,  from 
some  unexpected  source,  come  across  the  palate 
of  the  mouth.  Well ;  she  could  only  gulp  at  it, 
and  swallow  it,  and  excuse  it.  Among  tlie  sal- 
ad that  comes  from  your  garden  a  bitter  leaf  will 
now  and  then  make  its  way  into  your  salad- 
bowl.  Alas,  there  were  so  many  bitter  leaves 
ever  making  their  way  into  her  bowl !  "  What 
I  mean  is,  Joshua,  that  no  long  explanation 
will  1)0  needed.  I  think,  from  what  I  remem- 
ber of  him,  that  he  would  do  for  us  any  thing 
that  he  could  do." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  the  man,  and  will  hum- 
ble myself  before  him.  Even  that,  hard  as  it  is 
to  me,  may  be  a  duty  that  I  owe."  Mr.  Craw- 
ley as  he  said  this  was  remembering  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  En- 
gland, and  that  he  had  a  rank  of  his  own  in  the 
country,  which,  did  he  ever  do  such  a  thing  as 
go  out  to  dinner  in  company,  would  establish 
for  him  a  certain  right  of  precedence  ;  whereas 
this  attorney,  of  whom  he  was  speaking,  was, 
so  to  say,  nobody  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

"  There  need  be  no  humbling,  Josiah,  other 
than  that  which  is  due  from  man  to  man  in  all 
circumstances.  But  never  mind  ;  we  will  not 
talk  about  that.  If  it  seems  good  to  j'ou,  go  to 
Mr.  Toogood.  I  think  that  it  is  good.  May 
I  write  to  him  and  say  that  you  will  go  ?" 

"  I  will  write  myself;  it  will  be  more  seemly." 

Then  the  wife  paused  before  she  asked  the 
next  rpiestion — paused  for  some  minute  or  two, 
and  then  asked  it  with  anxious  doubt — "And 
^may  I  go  with  yon,  Josiah  ?" 

"  Why  should  two  go  when  one  can  do  the 
woik  ?'  he  answered,  sharply.  "  Have  we  mon- 
ey so  much  at  command  ?" 

"  Indeed  no." 

"You  should  go  and  do  it  all,  for  3'ou  are 
wiser  in  these  things  than  I  am,  were  it  not 
that  I  may  not  dare  to  show — that  I  submit  ray- 
self  to  my  wife." 

"Nay,  my  dear!" 

"  But  it  is  ay,  my  dear.  It  is  so.  This  is  a 
thing  such  as  men  do ;  not  such  as  women  do, 
unless  they  be  forlorn  and  unaided  of  men.  I 
know  that  I  am  weak  where  you  are  strong ; 
that  I  am  crazed  where  you  are  clear-witted." 

"I  meant  not  that,  Josiah.  It  was  of  your 
health  that  I  thought." 

"Nevertheless  it  is  as  I  say  ;  but,  for  all  that, 
it  may  not  be  that  you  should  do  my  work. 
There  are  those  watching  me  who  would  say, 
'  Lo  !  he  confesses  himself  incapable.'  And 
then  some  one  would  whisper  something  of  a 
mad-house.  Mary,  I  fear  that  worse  than  a 
prison." 

"May  God  in  Ilis  mercy  forbid  such  cru-' 
elty!" 

"But  I  must  look  to  it,  my  dear.     Do  you 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


137 


think  that  that  woman,  who  sits  there  at  Bar- 
chester  in  high  places,  disgracing  herself  and 
that  puny  ecclesiastical  lord  who  is  her  hus- 
band— do  you  think  that  she  would  not  immure 
me  if  she  could?  She  is  a  she-wolf— only  less 
reasonable  than  the  dumb  brute  as  she  sharpens 
her  teeth  in  malice  coming  from  anger,  and  not 
in  malice  coming  from  hunger  as  do  the  outer 
wolves  of  the  forest.  I  tell  you,  Mary,  that  if 
she  had  a  colorable  ground  for  her  action,  she 
would  swear  to-morrow  that  I  am  mad." 

"  You  shall  go  alone  to  London." 

"Yes,  I  will  go  alone.  They  shall  not  say 
that  I  can  not  yet  do  my  own  work  as  a  man 
should  do  it.  I  stood  up  before  him,  the  puny 
man  who  is  called  a  bishop,  and  before  her  who 
makes  herself  great  by  his  littleness,  and  I 
scorned  them  both  to  their  faces.  Though  the 
slioes  which  I  had  on  were  all  broken,  as  I  my- 
self could  not  but  see  when  I  stood,  yet  I  was 
greater  than  they  were  with  all  their  purple  and 
fine  linen." 

"But,  Josiah,  my  cousin  will  not  be  harsh 
to  you." 

"Well — and  if  he  be  not?" 

"Ill-usage  you  can  bear;  and  violent  ill- 
usage,  such  as  that  which  Mrs.  Proudie  allowed 
herself  to  exhibit,  you  can  repay  with  interest ; 
but  kindness  seems  to  be  too  heavy  a  burden  for 
you." 

"I  will  struggle.  I  will  endeavor.  I  will 
speak  but  little,  and,  if  possible,  I  will  listen 
much.  Now,  my  dear,  I  will  write  to  this  man, 
and  you  shall  give  me  the  address  that  is  proper 
for  him."  Then  he  wrote  the  letter,  not  accept- 
ing a  word  in  the  way  of  dictation  from  his  wife, 
but  "  craving  the  great  kindness  of  a  short  inter- 
view, for  which  he  ventured  to  become  a  solicitor, 
urged  thereto  by  his  wife's  assurance  that  one 
with  whom  he  was  connected  by  family  ties 
would  do  as  much  as  this  for  the  possible  pres- 
ervation of  the  honor  of  the  family."  In  an- 
swer to  this,  Mr.  Toogood  wrote  back  as  follows : 
"Dear  Mk.  Crawley, — I  will  be  at  my  office 
all  Thursday  morning  next  from  ten  to  two,  ant| 
will  take  care  that  you  sha'n't  be  kept  waiting 
for  me  above  ten  minutes.  You  parsons  never 
like  waiting.  But  hadn't  you  better  come  and 
breakfast  with  me  and  Maria  at  nine?  then 
we'd  have  a  talk  as  we  walk  to  the  office.  Yours 
always,  Thomas  Toogood."  And  the  letter 
was  dated  from  the  attorney's  private  house  in 
Tavistock  Square. 

"I  am  sure  he  means  to  be  kind,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"Doubtless  he  means  to  be  kind.  But  his 
kindness  is  rough — I  will  not  say  unmannerly, 
as  the  word  would  be  harsh.  I  have  never  even 
seen  the  lady  whom  he  calls  Maria." 

"  She  is  his  wife  !" 

"  So  I  would  venture  to  suppose ;  but  she  is 
unknown  to  me.  I  will  write  again,  and  thank 
him,  and  say  that  I  will  be  with  him  at  ten  to 
the  moment." 

There  were  still  many  things  to  be  settled  be- 
fore the  journey  could  be  made.     Mr.  Crawley, 


in  his  first  plan,  proposed  that  he  should  go  up 
by  night  mail  train,  traveling  in  the  third  class, 
having  walked  over  to  Silverbridge  to  meet  it; 
that  he  should  then  walk  about  London  from 
5  A.M.  to  10  A.M.,  and  afterward  come  down  by 
an  afternoon  train  to  which  a  third  class  was 
also  attached.  But  at  last  his  wife  persuaded 
him  that  such  a  task  as  that,  performed  in  the 
middle  of  the  winter,  would  be  enough  to  kill 
any  man,  and  that,  if  attempted,  it  would  cer- 
tainly kill  him ;  and  he  consented  at  last  to 
sleep  the  night  in  town — being  specially  moved 
thereto  by  discovering  that  he  could,  in  con- 
formity with  this  scheme,  get  in  and  out  of  the 
train  at  a  station  considerably  nearer  to  him 
than  Silverbridge,  and  that  he  could  get  a  re- 
turn-ticket at  a  third-class  fare.  The  whole 
journey,  he  found,  could  be  done  for  a  pound, 
allowing  him  seven  shillings  for  his  night's  ex- 
penses in  London  ;  and  out  of  the  resources  of 
the  family  there  were  produced  two  sovereigns, 
so  that  in  the  event  of  accident  he  would  not 
utterly  be  a  castaway  from  want  of  funds. 

So  he  started  on  his  journey  after  an  early 
dinner,  almost  hopeful  througli  the  new  excite- 
ment of  a  journey  to  London,  and  his  wife  walked 
with  him  nearly  as  far  as  the  station.  "Do not 
reject  my  cousin's  kindness,"  were  the  last  woi'ds 
she  spoke. 

"  For  his  professional  kindness,  if  he  will  ex- 
tend it  to  me,  I  will  be  most  thankful,"  he  re- 
plied. She  did  not  dare  to  say  more ;  nor  had 
she  dared  to  write  privately  to  her  consiu,  ask- 
ing for  any  special  help,  lest  by  doing  so  she 
should  seem  to  impugn  the  sufficiency  and  sta- 
bility of  her  husband's  judgment.  He  got  up  to 
town  late  at  night,  and  having  made  inquiry  of 
one  of  the  porters,  he  hired  a  bed  for  himself 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  railway  station. 
Here  he  had  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  morsel  of  bread- 
and-butter,  and  in  the  morning  he  breakfasted 
again  on  the  same  fare.  "No,  I  have  no  lug- 
gage," he  had  said  to  the  girl  at  the  public  house, 
who  had  asked  him  as  to  his  traveling  gear. 
"If  luggage  be  needed  as  a  certificate  of  re- 
spectability, I  will  pass  on  elsewhere,"  said  he. 
The  girl  stared,  and  assured  him  that  she  did 
not  doubt  his  respectability.  "I  am  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England,"  he  had  said, 
"  but  my  circumstances  prevent  me  from  seeking 
a  more  expensive  lodging."  They  did  their  best 
to  make  him  comfortable,  and,  I  think,  almost 
disappointed  him  in  not  heaping  further  mis- 
fortunes on  his  head. 

He  was  in  Raymond's  Buildings  at  half  past 
nine,  and  for  half  an  hour  walked  up  and  down 
the  umbrageous  pavement — it  used  to  be  um- 
brageous, but  perhaps  the  trees  have  gone  now 
— before  the  doors  of  the  various  chambers. 
He  could  hear  the  clock  strike  from  Gray's  Inn  ; 
and  the  moment  that  it  had  struck  he  was  turn- 
ing in,  but  was  encountered  in  the  passage  by 
Mr.  Toogood,  who  was  equally  punctual  with 
himself  Strange  stories  about  Mr.  Crawley  had 
reached  Mr.  Toogood's  household,  and  that 
Maria,  the  mention  of  whose  Christian  name 


138 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


had  been  so  oft'eiisivc  to  tlic  clergyman,  had 
begged  licr  husband  not  to  be  a  moment  hitc. 
Poor  Mr.  Toogood,  who  on  ordinary  days  did 
perhai)S  take  a  few  minutes'  grace,  was  tlius 
hurried  away  ahnost  witli  his  breakfast  in  his 
throat,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  just  saved  himself. 
'Terliaps,  Sir,  you  arc  ^Ir.  Crawley,"  he  said, 
in  a  good-humored,  cheery  voice,  lie  was  a 
good-Iiumored,  dicery-looking  man,  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  with  grizzled  hair,  and  sun-burnt 
face,  and  large  whiskers.  Nobody  would  have 
taken  him  to  be  a  ])artncr  in  any  of  those  great 
houses  of  which  wc  have  read  in  history — the 
Quirk,  Gammon,  and  Snaps  of  the  profession, 
or  the  Dodson  and  Foggs,  who  are  immortal. 

"That  is  my  name,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Crawley, 
taking  olT  his  hat  and  bowing  low,  "and  I  am 
here  by  a])pointment  to  meet  Mr.  Toogood,  the 
solicitor,  whose  name  I  see  aihxcd  upon  the 
door-post." 

"  I  am  IMr.  Toogood,  the  solicitor,  and  I  hope 
I  see  you  quite  well,  Mr.  Crawley."  Then  the 
attorney  shook  hands  with  the  clergyman,  and 
preceded  him  up  stairs  to  the  front-room  on 
the  first-floor.  "Here  we  arc,  Mr.  Crawley, 
and  pray  take  a  chair.  I  wish  you  could  have 
made  it  convenient  to  come  and  see  lis  at 
home.  Wc  are  rather  long,  as  my  wife  says — 
long  in  family,  she  means,  and  thcrcfoi'e  are 
not  very  well  off  for  spare  beds — " 

"Oh,  Sir!" 

"I've  twelve  of  'em  living,  Mr.  Crawley — 
from  eighteen  years,  the  eldest — a  girl,  down  to 
eighteen  months,  the  youngest — a  boy,  and  they 
go  in  and  out,  boy  and  girl,  like  the  cogs  of  a 
wheel.  They  ain't  such  far-away  distant  cous- 
ins from  your  own  young  ones — only  first,  once, 
as  we  call  it." 

"I  am  aware  that  there  is  a  family  tie,  or  I 
should  not  have  ventured  to  trouble  you." 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water;  isn't  it?  I 
often  say  that.  I  heard  of  one  of  your  girls  only 
yesterday.  She  is  staying  somewhere  down  in 
the  country,  not  far  from  where  my  sister  lives 
■ — Mrs.  Eames,  the  widow  of  poor  John  Eames, 
who  never  did  any  good  in  this  world.  I  dare 
say  you've  heard  of  her  ?" 

"The name  is  familiar  to  me,  Mr. Toogood." 

"  Of  course  it  is.  I've  a  nephew  down  there 
just  now,  and  he  saw  your  girl  the  other  day — 
very  highly  he  spoke  of  her  too.  Let  me  sec 
— how  many  is  it  you  have  ?" 

"Tlu'ce  living,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"I've  just  four  times  three — that's  the  dif- 
ference. But  I  comfort  myself  with  the  text 
about  the  quiver,  you  know ;  and  I  tell  them 
that  when  they've  eat  up  all  the  butter  they'll 
have  to  take  their  bread  dry." 

"I  trust  the  young  people  take  your  teach- 
ing in  a  proper  spirit." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  spirit.  There's 
spirit  enough.  My  second  girl,  Lucy,  told  me 
that  if  I  came  home  to-day  without  tickets  for  the 
pantomime  I  shouldn't  have  any  dinner  allowed 
me.  That's  the  way  they  treat  me.  But  we 
understand  each  other  at   home.      We're  all 


pretty  good  friends  there,  thank  God!     And 
there  isn't  a  sick  cliick  among  the  boiling." 

"You  have  many  mercies  for  which  you 
sliould  indeed  be  thankful,"  said  Mr.  Crawley, 
gravely. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  ;  that's  true.  I  think  of  that 
sometimes,  though  perhaps  not  so  much  as  I 
ought  to  do.  But  the  best  way  to  be  thankful 
is  to  use  the  goods  the  gods  provide  you.  '  The 
lovely  Thais  sits  beside  you.  Take  the  goods 
the  gods  provide  you.'  I  often  say  that  to  my 
wife,  till  the  children  have  got  to  calling  her 
Thais.  Tiie  children  have  it  pretty  much  their 
own  way  with  us,  Mr.  Crawley." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Crawley  was  almost  beside 
himself,  and  was  altogether  at  a  loss  how  to 
bring  in  the  matter  on  which  he  wished  to 
speak.  He  had  expected  to  find  a  man  who 
in  the  hurry  of  London  business  might  perhaps 
just  manage  to  s])are  him  five  minutes — who 
would  gra]ijde  instantly  with  the  subject  that 
was  to  be  discussed  between  them,  would  speak 
to  him  half  a  dozen  hard  words  of  wisdom,  and 
would  then  dismiss  him  and  turn  on  the  in- 
stant to  other  matters  of  important  business; 
but  here  was  an  easy,  familiar  fellow,  who 
seemed  to  have  nothing  on  earth  to  do,  and 
who  at  this  first  meeting  had  taken  advantage 
of  a  distant  family  connection  to  tell  liim  every 
thing  about  tlie  aff'airs  of  his  own  household. 
And  then  how  ])eculiar  were  the  domestic  traits 
which  he  told  !  What  was  IMr.  Crawley  to  say 
to  a  man  who  had  taught  his  own  children  to 
call  their  mother  Thais  ?  Of  Thais  Mr.  Craw- 
ley did  know  something,  and  he  forgot  to  re- 
member that  perhaps  ^Rlr.  Toogood  knew  less. 
He  felt  it,  however,  to  be  very  difficult  to  sub- 
mit the  details  of  his  case  to  a  gentleman  who 
talked  in  such  a  strain  about  his  own  wife  and 
children. 

But  something  must  be  done.  Mr.  Crawley, 
in  his  present  frame  of  mind,  could  not  sit  and 
talk  about  Thais  all  day.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "the 
picture  of  your  home  is  very  pleasant,  and  I 
presume  that  plenty  abounds  there." 

"Well,  you  know,  pretty  toll-loll  for  that. 
With  twelve  of 'em,  Mr.  Crawley,  I  needn't  tell 
you  they  are  not  all  going  to  have  castles  and 
parks  of  their  own,  unless  they  can  get  'em  off 
their  own  bats.  But  I  pay  upward  of  a  hun- 
dred a  year  each  for  my  eldest  three  boys' 
schooling,  and  I've  been  paying  eighty  for  the 
girls.  Put  that  and  that  together  and  see  what 
it  comes  to.  Educate,  educate,  educate  ;  that's 
my  word." 

"  No  better  word  can  be  spoken.  Sir." 
"I  don't  think  there's  a  girl  in  Tavistock 
Square  that  can  beat  Polly — she's  the  eldest, 
called  after  her  mother,  you  know — that  can 
beat  her  at  the  piano.  And  Lucy  has  read 
Lord  Byron  and  Tom  Moore  all  through,  every 
word  of  'em.  By  Jove !  I  believe  slie  knows 
most  of  Tom  Moore  by  heart.  And  the  young 
uns  are  coming  on  just  as  well." 

"Perhaps,  Sir,  as  your  time  is,  no  doubt, 
precious — " 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET 


139 


"  Just  at  tills  time  of  the  day  wc  don't  care 
so  mucli  about  it,  Mr.  Crawley  :  and  one  doesn't 
catch  a  new  cousin  every  day,  you  know." 

"However,  if  you  will  allow  me — " 

"We'll  tackle  to?  Very  well;  so  be  it. 
Now,  Mr.  Crawley,  let  me  hear  what  it  is  that 
I  can  do  for  you."  Of  a  sudden,  as  Mr.  Too- 
good  spoke  these  last  words,  the  whole  tone  of 
his  voice  seemed  to  change,  and  even  the  posi- 
tion of  his  bod}'  became  so  much  altered  as  to 
indicate  a  different  kind  of  man.  "You  just 
tell  your  story  in  your  own  way,  and  I  won't 
interrupt  you  till  you've  done.  That's  always 
the  best." 

"I  must  first  crave  your  attention  to  an  im- 
fortunate  preliminary,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"I  come  before  you  in  forma  pauperis." 
Here  ]\Ir.  Crawley  paused  and  stood  up  before 
the  attorney  with  his  hands  crossed  one  upon 
the  other,  bending  low,  as  though  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  poorness  of  his  raiment.  "I  know 
that  I  have  no  justification  for  my  conduct.  I 
have  nothing  of  reason  to  offer  why  I  should 
trespass  upon  your  time.  I  am  a  poor  man, 
and  can  not  pay  you  for  your  services." 

"Oil,  bother!"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  jumping 
lip  out  of  his  chair. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  your  charity  will  grant 
me  that  which  I  ask — " 

"Don't  let's  have  any  more  of  this,"  said 
the  attorney.  "We  none  of  us  like  this  kind 
of  thing  at  all.  If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to 
you,  you're  as  welcome  to  it  as  flowers  in  May  ; 
and  as  for  billing  my  first-cousin,  wliich  your 
wife  is,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  sending  in  an 
account  to  my  own." 

"But,  Mr.  Toogood—" 

"  Do  you  go  on  now  with  your  story ;  I'll  put 
the  rest  all  right." 

"  I  was  bound  to  be  explicit,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"  Very  well ;  now  you  have  been  explicit  with 
a  vengeance,  and  you  may  heave  ahead.  Let's 
hear  the  story,  and  if  I  can  help  you  I  will. 
"When  I've  said  that,  you  may  be  sure  I  mean 
it.  I've  heard  something  of  it  before ;  but  let 
me  hear  it  all  from  you." 

Then  i\Ir.  Crawley  began  and  told  the  story. 
Mr.  Toogood  was  actually  true  to  his  promise, 
and  let  the  narrator  go  on  with  his  narrative 
without  interruption.  When  Mr.  Crawley  came 
to  his  own  statement  that  the  check  had  been 
paid  to  him  by  Mr.  Soames,  and  went  on  to  say 
that  that  statement  had  been  false — "  I  told  him 
that,  but  I  told  him  so  wrongly" — and  then 
paused,  thinking  that  the  lawyer  would  ask  some 
question,  Mr.  Toogood  simply  said,  "Go  on; 
go  on.  I'll  come  back  to  all  that  when  you've 
done."  And  he  merely  nodded  his  head  when 
Mr.  Crawley  spoke  of  his  second  statement,  that 
the  money  had  come  from  the  dean.  "  We  had 
been  bound  together  by  close  ties  of  early  famil- 
iarity," said  Mr.  Crawley,  "  and  in  former  years 
our  estates  in  life  were  the  same.  But  he  has 
prospered  and  I  have  failed.  And  when  cred- 
itors were  importunate  I  consented  to  accept 


relief  in  money  which  had  previously  been  often 
oftered.  And  I  must  acknowledge,  Mr.  Too- 
good,  while  saying  this,  that  I  have  known — 
have  known  with  heart-felt  agony — that  at  for- 
mer times  my  wife  has  taken  that  from  my  friend 
Mr.  Arabin,  with  hand  half-hidden  from  me, 
which  I  have  refused.  Whether  it  be  better  to 
eat  tlie  bread  of  charity — or  not  to  eat  bread  at 
all,  I,  for  myself,  have  no  doubt,"  he  said ;  "  but 
when  the  want  strikes  one's  wife  and  children, 
and  the  charity  strikes  only  one's  self,  then  there 
is  a  doubt."  When  he  spoke  thus,  IMr.  Too- 
good  got  up,  and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
waistcoat  pockets  walked  about  the  room,  ex- 
claiming, "By  George,  by  George,  by  George!" 
But  he  still  let  the  man  go  on  with  his  story, 
and  heard  him  out  at  last  to  the  end. 

"And  they  committed  you  for  trial  at  the 
next  Barchester  assizes?"  said  the  lawyer. 

"They  did." 

"And  you  employed  no  lawyer  before  the 
magistrates?" 

"None — I  refused  to  employ  any  one." 

"  You  were  wrong  there,  Mr.  Crawley.  I 
must  be  allowed,  to  say  that  you  were  wrong 
there." 

"I  may  possibly  have  been  so  from  your 
point  of  view,  Mr.  Toogood  ;  but  permit  me  to 
explain.     I — " 

"It's  no  good  explaining  now.  Of  course 
you  must„employ  a  lawyer  for  your  defense — 
an  attorney  who  will  put  the  case  into  the  hands 
of  counsel." 

"But  that  I  can  not  do,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"You  must  do  it.  If  you  don't  do  it,  your 
friends  should  do  it  for  you.  If  you  don't  do  it, 
every  body  will  say  you're  mad.  There  isn't  a 
single  solicitor  you  could  find  within  half  a  mile 
of  you  at  this  moment  who  wouldn't  give  you 
the  same  advice — not  a  single  man,  either,  who 
has  got  a  head  on  his  shoulders  worth  a  turnip." 

When  Mr.  Crawley  was  told  that  madness 
would  be  laid  to  his  charge  if  he  did  not  do  as 
he  was  bid  his  face  became  very  black,  and 
assumed  something  of  that  look  of  determined 
obstinacy  which  it  had  worn  when  he  was  stand- 
ing in  the  presence  of  the  bishop  and  Mi's.  Prou- 
die.  "  It  maj  be  so,"  he  said.  "  It  may  be  as 
you  say,  Mr.  'roogood.  But  these  neighbors  of 
yours,  as  to  whose  collected  wisdom  you  speak 
with  so  much  certainty,  would  hardly  recom- 
mend me  to  indulge  in  a  luxury  for  which  I 
have  no  means  of  paying." 

"Who  thinks  about  paying  under  such  cir- 
cumstances as  these?" 

"I  do,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"  The  wretchedest  coster-monger  that  comes 
to  grief  has  a  barrister  in  a  wig  and  gown  to 
give  him  his  chance  of  escape." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  coster-monger,  Mr.  Toogood 
— though  more  wretched  perhaps  than  any  cos- 
ter-monger now  in  existence.  It  is  my  lot  to 
have  to  endure  the  sufferings  of  poverty,  and  at 
the  same  time  not  to  be  exempt  from  those  feel- 
ings of  honor  to  wliich  poverty  is  seldom  sub- 
ject.    I  can  not  afford  to  call  in  legal  assist- 


liO 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


mice  for  wliich  I  can  not  pay  and — I  ^vill  not 
do  it." 

"  I'll  carry  the  case  through  for  you.  It  cer- 
tainly is  not  just  my  lino  of  business — but  I'll 
see  it  carried  through  for  you." 

'•  Out  of  your  own  i)ockct  ?" 

"Never  mind;  when  I  say  I'll  do  a  thing, 
I'll  do  it." 

"No,  Mr.  Toogood;  this  thing  you  can  not 
do.  But  do  not  suppose  I  am  tlic  less  grate- 
ful." 

"What  is  it  I  can  do  then?  Why  do  you 
come  to  me  if  you  won't  fake  my  advice?" 

After  this  the  conversation  went  on  for  a  con- 
siderable time  without  touching  on  any  point 
which  need  be  brought  paljjably  before  the  read- 
er's eye.  The  attorney  continued  to  beg  the 
clergyman  to  have  his  case  managed  in  the 
usual  way,  and  went  so  far  as  to  tell  him  that 
he  would  be  ill-treating  his  wife  and  family  if 
he  continued  to  be  obstinate.  But  the  clergy- 
man was  not  shaken  from  his  resolve,  and  was 
at  last  able  to  ask  Mr.  Toogood  what  he  had 
better  do — how  he  had  better  attempt  to  defend 
himself — on  the  understanding  that  no  legal  aid 
w'as  to  be  employed.  When  this  question  was 
at  last  asked  in  such  a  way  as  to  demand  an  an- 
swer Mr.  Toogood  sat  for  a  moment  or  two  in 
silence.  He  felt  that  an  answer  was  not  only 
demanded,  but  almost  enforced ;  and  yet  there 
might  be  much  ditSculty  in  giving  it. 

"Mr.  Toogood,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  seeing  the 
attorney's  hesitation,  "I  declare  to  you  before 
God  that  my  only  object  will  be  to  enable  the 
jury  to  know  about  this  sad  matter  all  that  I 
know  myself.  If  I  could  open  my  breast  to 
them  I  should  be  satisfied.  But  then  a  prisoner 
can  say  nothing ;  and  what  he  does  say  is  ever 
accounted  false." 

"That  is  why  you  should  have  legal  assist- 
ance." 

"We  had  already  come  to  a  conclusion  on 
that  matter,  as  I  thought,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

Mr.  Toogood  paused  for  another  moment  or 
two,  and  then  dashed  at  his  answer ;  or  rather, 
dashed  at  a  counter  question.  "Mr.  Crawley, 
where  did  you  get  the  check  ?  You  must  par- 
don me,  you  know  ;  or,  if  you  wish  it,  I  will 
not  press  the  question.  But  so  much  hangs  on 
that,  you  know." 

"Every  thing  would  hang  on  it — if  I  only 
knew." 

"You  mean  that  you  forget?" 

"  Absolutely ;  totally.  I  wish,  Mr.  Toogood, 
I  could  explain  to  you  the  toilsome  perseverance 
with  which  I  have  cudgeled  my  poor  brains, 
endeavoring  to  extract  from  them  some  scintilla 
of  memory  that  would  aid  me." 

"Could  you  have  picked  it  up  in  the  house?" 

"No — no;  that  I  did  not  do.  Dull  as  I 
am,  I  know  so  much.  It  was  mine  of  right, 
from  whatever  source  it  came  to  me.  I  know 
myself  as  no  one  else  can  know  me,  in  spite  of 
the  wise  man's  motto.  Had  I  picked  up  a 
check  in  my  house,  or  on  the  road,  I  should  not 
liavc  slept  till  I  had  taken  steps  to  restore  it  to 


the  seeming  owner.  So  much  I  can  say.  But, 
otherwise,  I  am  in  such  matters  so  shandy- 
pated,  that  I  can  trust  myself  to  be  sure  of  no- 
thing.    I  thought — I  certainly  thought — " 

"You  thought  what?" 

"I  thought  that  it  had  been  given  to  me  by 
my  friend  the  dean.  I  remember  well  that  1 
was  in  his  library  at  Bavchester,  and  I  was  some- 
what provoked  in  spirit.  There  were  lying  on 
the  floor  hundreds  of  volumes,  all  glittering 
with  gold  and  reeking  with  new  leather  from 
the  binders.  He  asked  me  to  look  at  his  toys. 
Why  should  I  look  at  them?  There  was  a 
time,  but  the  other  day  it  seemed,  when  he  had 
been  glad  to  borrow  from  me  such  treasures  as 
I  had.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  heart- 
less in  showing  me  these  things.  Well ;  I  need 
not  trouble  you  with  all  that." 

"Go  on— go  on.  Let  me  hear  it  all,  and  I 
shall  learn  something." 

"  I  know  now  how  vain,  how  vile  I  was.  I 
always  know  afterward  how  low  the  spirit  has 
groveled.  I  had  gone  to  him  then  because  I 
had  resolved  to  humble  myself,  and,  for  my 
wife's  sake,  to  ask  my  friend — for  money.  With 
words  which  were  very  awkward — which  no 
doubt  were  ungracious — I  had  asked  him,  and 
he  had  bid  me  follow  him  from  his  hall  into  his 
library.  There  he  left  me  a  wliile,  and  on  re- 
turaing  told  me  with  a  smile  that  he  had  sent 
for  money — and,  if  I  can  remember,  the  sum  he 
named  was  fifty  pounds." 

"But  it  has  turned  out,  as  you  say,  that  you 
have  paid  fifty  pounds  with  his  money — besides 
the  check." 

"That  is  true — that  is  quite  true.  There  is 
no  doubt  of  that.  But  as  I  was  saying — then 
he  fell  to  talking  abotit  the  books,  and  I  was  an- 
gered. I  was  very  sore  in  my  heart.  From  the 
moment  in  which  the  words  of  beggary  had  pass- 
ed from  my  lips  I  had  repented.  And  he  had 
laughed  and  had  taken  it  gayly.  I  turned 
upon  him  and  told  him  that  I  had  changed  my 
mind.  I  was  grateful,  but  I  would  not  have 
his  money.  And  so  I  prepared  to  go.  But  he 
argued  with  me,  and  would  not  let  me  go — tell- 
ing me  of  my  wife  and  of  my  children,  and 
while  he  argued  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  something  was  handed  in,  and  I  knew  that 
it  was  the  hand  of  his  wife." 

"It  was  the  money,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Toogood;  it  was  the  money. 
And  I  became  the  more  uneasy  because  she 
herself  is  rich.  I  liked  it  the  less  because  it 
seemed  to  come  from  her  hand.  But  I  took  it. 
AVhat  could  I  do  when  he  reminded  me  that  I 
£ould  not  keep  my  parish  unless  certain  sums 
were  paid  ?  He  gave  me  a  little  parcel  in  a 
cover,  and  I  took  it — and  left  him  sorrowing. 
I  had  never  before  come  quite  to  that — though, 
indeed,  it  had  in  fact  been  often  so  before. 
What  was  the  difference  whether  the  alms  were 
given  into  my  hands  or  into  my  wife's?'' 

"  You  are  too  touchy  about  it  all,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley." 

"Of  course  I  am.     Do  you  try  it,  and  see 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


141 


whether  you  will  be  touchy.     You  have  worked 
hai'd  at  your  professiou,  I  dare  say." 

"Well,  yes;  pretty  well.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  have  worked  hard.  By  George,  yes  !  It's  not 
so  bad  now  as  it  used  to  be." 

"But  you  have  always  earned  your  bread; 
bread  for  yourself,  and  bread  for  your  wife  and 
little  one*.     You  can  buy  tickets  for  the  play." 

"I  couldn't  always  buy  tickets,  mind  you." 

"  I  have  worked  as  hard,  and  yet  I  can  not 
get  bread.  I  am  older  than  you,  and  I  can  not 
earn  my  bare  bread.  Look  at  my  clothes.  If 
you  had  to  go  and  beg  from  Mr.  Crump,  would 
not  you  be  touchy?" 

"As  it  happens,  Crump  isn't  so  well  off  as  I 
am." 

"  Never  mind.  But  I  took  it,  and  went 
home,  and  for  two  days  I  did  not  look  at  it. 
And  then  there  came  an  illness  upon  me,  and  I 
know  not  what  passed.  But  two  men  wiio  had 
been  hard  on  me  came  to  the  house  when  I  was 
out,  and  piy  wife  was  in  a  terrible  state ;  and  I 
gave  her  the  money,  and  she  went  into  Silver- 
bridge  and  paid  them." 

"And  this  check  was  Mitli  what  you  g.ave 
her?" 

"No;  I  gave  her  money  in  notes — ^just  fifty 
pounds.  When  I  gave  it  her  I  thought  I  gave 
it  all ;  and  yet  afterward  I  thought  I  remem- 
bered that  in  my  illness  I  had  found  the  check 
with  the  dean's  money.     But  it  was  not  so." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that?" 
.   "He  has  said  that  he  put  five  notes  of  £10 
each  into  the  cover,  and  such  notes  I  certainly 
gave  to  my  wife." 

"  Wliere  then  did  you  get  the  check?"  Mr. 
Crawley  again  paused  before  he  answered. 
"  Surely,  if  you  will  exert  your  mind,  you  will 
remember,"  said  the  lawyer.  "Where  did  you 
get  the  check?"  / 

"I  do  not  know." 

Mr.  Toogood  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
took  his  knee  up  into  his  lap  to  nurse  it,  and 
began  to  think  of  it.  He  sat  thinking  of  it  for 
some  minutes  without  a  word — perhaps  for  five 
minutes,  tliough  the  time  seemed  to  be  much 
longer  to  Mr.  Crawley,  who  was,  however,  de- 
termined that  he  would  not  interrupt  him.  And 
Mr.  Toogood's  thoughts  were  at  variance  with 
Mr.  Toogood's  former  words.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  this  scheme  of  Mr.  Crawley's — or  rather  the 
mode  of  defense  on  which  he  had  resolved  with- 
out any  scheme — might  be  the  best  of  which 
the  case  admitted.  It  might  be  well  that  he 
should  go  into  court  without  a  lawyer.  "He 
has  convinced  me  of  his  innocence,"  Mr.  Too- 
good  said  to  himself,  "and  why  should  he  not 
convince  a  jury?  He  has  convinced  me,  not 
because  I  am  specially  soft,  or  because  I  love 
the  man — for  as  to  that  I  dislike  him  rather 
than  otherwise — but  because  there  is  either  real 
truth  in  his  words,  or  else  so  well-feigned  a  show 
of  truth  that  no  jury  can  tell  the  difference.  I 
think  it  is  true.  By  George !  I  think  he  did  get 
the  twenty  pounds  Iionestly,  and  that  he  docs 
not  this  moment  know  where  he  got  it.      He  I 


may  have  put  his  finger  into  my  eye ;  but,  if 
so,  why  not  also  into  the  eyes  of  a  jury  ?"  Then 
he  released  his  leg,  and  spoke  something  of  his 
thoughts  aloud.  "It's  a  sad  story,"  he  said; 
"  a  very  sad  story." 

"Well,  yes,  it's  sad  enough.  If  you  could 
sec  my  house  you'd  say  so." 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  but  what  you're  as  inno- 
cent as  I  am."  Mr.  Toogood,  as  he  said  this, 
felt  a  little  twinge  *f  conscience.  He  did  be- 
lieve Mr.  Crawley  to  be  innocent,  but  he  was 
not  so  sure  of  it  as  his  words  would  seem  to  im- 
ply. Nevertheless  he  repeated  the  words  again 
— "as  innocent  as  I  am." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  "I  don't 
know.     I  think  I  am  ;  but  I  don't  know." 

"I  believe  you  are.  But  you  see  the  case  is 
a  very  distressing  one.  A  jury  has  a  right  to 
say  that  the  man  in  possession  of  a  check  for 
twenty  pounds  should  account  for  his  possession 
of  it.  If  I  understand  the  story  aright,  Mr. 
Soames  will  be  able  to  prove  that  he  brought 
the  check  into  your  house,  and,  as  far  as  he 
knows,  never  took  it  out  again." 

"I  suppose  so;  all  the  same,  if  he  brought 
it  in,  then  did  he  also  take  it  out  again." 

"I  am  saying  what  he  will  prove — or,  in 
other  words,  what  he  will  state  upon  oath. 
You  can't  contradict  him.  You  can't  get  into 
the  box  to  do  it— even  if  that  would  be  of  any 
avail ;  and  I  am  glad  that  you  can  not,  as  it 
would  be  of  no  avail.  And  you  can  put  no  one 
else  into  the  box  who  can  do  so." 

"No;  no." 

"  That  is  to  say,  we  think  you  can  not  do  so. 
People  can  do  so  many  things  that  they  don't 
think  they  can  do  ;  and  can't  do  so  many  things 
that  they  think  that  they  can  do !  When  will 
the  dean  be  home?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Before  the  trial?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  have  no  idea." 

"It's  almost  a  toss-up  whether  he'd  do  more 
harm  or  good  if  he  were  there." 

"I  wish  he  might  be  there  if  he  has  any 
thing  to  say,  whether  it  might  be  for  harm  or 
good." 

"And  Mrs.  Arabin — she  is  with  him?" 

"  They  tell  me  she  is  not.  She  is  in  Europe. 
He  is  in  Palestine." 

"In  Palestine,  is  he?" 

"  So  they  tell  me.  A  dean  can  go  where  he 
likes.  He  has  no  cure  of  souls  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  pleasures." 

"He  hasn't — hasn't  he?  I  wish  I  were  a 
dean ;  that  is,  if  I  were  not  a  lawyer.  Might 
I  write  a  line  to  the  dean — and  to  Mrs.  Dean, 
if  it  seemed  fit  ?  You  wouldn't  mind  that?  As 
you  have  come  to  see  your  cousin  at  last — and 
very  glad  I  am  that  you  have — you  must  leave 
him  a  little  discretion.  I  won't  say  any  thing 
1  oughtn't  to  say."  Mr.  Crawley  opposed  this 
scheme  for  some  time,  but  at  Inst  consented  to 
the  proposition.  "And  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr. 
Crawley ;  I  am  very  fond  of  catliedrals,  I  am 
indeed;   and  I  have  long  wanted  to  see  Bar- 


142 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Chester.  There's  a  very  fine  what-you-may-call- 1 
'cm;  isn't  there?  Well;  I'll  just  run  down  at  j 
the  assizes.  We  have  nothing  to  do  in  London 
when  the  jud;;cs  are  in  the  country — of  course." 
]\[r.  Toogood  looked  into  Mv.  Crawley's  eyes  as 
he  said  this,  to  sec  if  his  iniquity  were  detected, 
lint  the  ]ierpctual  curate  was  altogether  innocent 
in  these  matters.  "Yes;  I'll  just  run  down  for 
a  mouthful  of  fresh  air.  Of  course  I  sha'n't 
ojien  my  mouth  in  court,  fcut  I  might  say  one 
■word  to  the  dean,  if  he's  there — and  one  word 
to  Mr.  Soames.  Who  is  conducting  the  ])rosc- 
cution?"  Jlr.  Crawley  said  tliat  I\Ir.  Walker 
was  doing  so.  "Walker,  Walker,  Walker? 
oh — yes ;  Walker  and  Winthrop,  isn't  it  ?  A 
decent  sort  of  man,  I  suppose  ?" 

"I  have  heard  nothing  to  his  discredit,  Mr. 
Toogood." 

"  And  that's  saying  a  great  deal  for  a  lawyer. 
Well,  Mr.  Crawley,  if  nothing  else  comes  out 
hctween  tliis  and  that — nothing,  that  is,  that 
shall  clear  your  memory  about  that  unfortunate 
Lit  of  paper — you  must  simply  tell  your  story  to 
the  jury  as  you've  told  it  to  me.  I  don't  think 
any  twelve  men  in  England  would  convict  you 
— I  don't  indeed." 

"You  think  they  would  not?" 

"Of  course  I've  only  heard  one  side,  Mr. 
Crawley." 

"No — no — no,  that  is  true." 

"But  judging  as  well  as  I  can  judge  from 
one  side,  I  don't  think  a  jury  can  convict  you. 
At  any  rate,  I'll  sec  yon  at  Barchester,  and  I'll 
write  a  line  or  two  before  the  trial,  just  to  find 
out  any  thing  that  can  be  found  out.  And 
you're  sure  you  won't  come  and  take  a  bit  of 
mutton  with  us  in  the  Square  ?  Tlie  girls 
would  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  so  would 
jMaria."  Mr.  Crawley  said  that  he  was  quite 
sure  he  could  not  do  that,  and.  then,  having 
tendered  reiterated  thanks  to  his  new  friend  in 
words  which  were  touching  in  si)ite  of  their  old- 
fashioned  gravit}',  he  took  his  leave,  and  walk- 
ed back  again  to  the  public  house  at  Padding- 
tor. 

He  returned  home  to  Ilogglestock  on  the 
same  afternoon,  reaching  that  place  at  nine  in 
tlie  evening.  During  the  whole  of  the  day  after 
leaving  Raymond's  Buildings  he  was  thinking 
of  the  lawyer,  and  of  the  words  which  the  law- 
j'er  had  spoken.  Although  he  had  been  dis- 
posed to  quarrel  with  Mr.  Toogood  on  many 
points,  although  he  had  been  more  than  once 
disgusted  by  the  attorney's  bad  taste,  shocked 
by  his  low  morality,  and  almost  insulted  by  his 
easy  familiarity,  still,  when  the  interview  was 
over,  he  liked  the  attorney.  When  first  Mr. 
Toogood  had  begun  to  talk  he  regretted  very 
much  that  he  had  subjected  himself  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  discussing  his  private  aft'airs  with  such 
a  wind-bag  of  a  man ;  but  when  he  left  the 
chamber  he  trusted  Mr.  Toogood  altogether,  and 
was  very  glad  that  he  had  sought  his  aid.  He 
was  tired  and  exhausted  when  he  reached  home, 
as  he  had  eaten  nothing  but  a  biscuit  or  two  since 
his  breakfast ;  but  his  wife  got  him  food  and  tea. 


and  then  asked  him  as  to  his  success.  "Was 
my  cousin  kind  to  you?" 

"Very  kind — more  than  kind — perhaps  some- 
what too  pressing  in  his  kindness.  But  I  find 
no  fault.  God  forbid  that  I  should !  He  is,  I 
tiiink,  a  good  man,  and  certainly  has  been  good 
to  me." 

"And  what  is  to  be  done?" 

"  He  will  write  to  the  dean." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"And  he  will  be  at  Barchester." 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 

"  But  not  as  my  lawyer." 

"Nevertheless  I  thank  God  that  some  one 
will  be  there  who  wull  know  how  to  give  you  as- 
sistance and  advice." 


CHAPTER  XXXIIL 

THE     1'  L  U  M  S  T  E  A  D     FOXES. 

The  letters  had  been  brought  into  the  break- 
fast-parlor at  Plumstead  Rectory  one  morning, 
and  the  archdeacon  had  inspected  them  all,  and 
then  thi'own  over  to  his  wife  her  share  of  the 
spoil — as  was  the  custom  of  the  house.  As  to 
most  of  Mrs.  Grantly's  letters  he  never  made 
any  further  inquiry.  To  letters  from  her  sister, 
the  dean's  wife,  he  was  ])rofoundly  indifferent, 
and  rarely  made  any  inquiry  as  to  those  which 
were  directed  in  writing  with  which  he  was  not 
familiar.  But  there  were  others  as  to  which, 
as  Mrs.  Grantly  knew,  he  would  be  sure  to  ask 
her  questions  if  she  did  not  show  them.  No 
note  ever  reached  her  from  Lady  Ilartletop  as 
to  which  he  was  not  curious,  and  yet  Lady 
Ilartletop's  notes  very  seldom  contained  much 
that  was  of  interest.  Now,  on  this  morning, 
there  came  a  letter  which,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
Mrs.  Grantly  read  at  breakfast,  and  which,  she 
/knew,  would  not  be  allowed  to  disappear  with- 
out inquiry.  Nor,  indeed,  did  she  wish  to  keep 
the  letter  from  her  husband.  It  was  too  im- 
portant to  be  so  treated.  But  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  gain  time  to  think  in  what  spirit 
she  would  discuss  the  contents  of  the  letter — if 
only  such  time  might  be  allowed  to  her.  But 
the  archdeacon  would  allow  her  no  time. 
"What  does  Hcnr}*  say,  my  dear?"  he  asked, 
before  the  breakfast  things  had  been  taken  away. 

"What  does  he  say?  Well;  he  says— 
I'll  give  you  his  letter  to  read  by-and-by." 

"And  why  not  now?" 

"I  thought  I'd  read  it  again  myself,  first." 

"  But  if  you  have  read  it  I  suppose  you  know 
what's  in  it." 

"  Not  very  clearly,  as  yet.  However,  there 
it  is."  She  knew  very  well  that  when  she  had 
once  been  asked  for  it,  no  peace  would  be  al- 
lowed to  her  till  he  had  seen  it.  And,  alas! 
there  was  not  much  probability  of  peace  in  the 
house  for  some  time  after  he  should  sec  it. 

The  archdeacon  read  the  three  or  four  first 
ilines  in  silence — and  then  he  burst  out:  "He 
has,  has  he  ?  then,  by  Heavens — " 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


143 


"Stop,  dearest;  stop,"  said  his  wife,  rising 
from  licr  cliair  and  coming  over  to  him;  "do 
not  say  words  which  you  will  surely  repent." 

"  I  will  say  words  which  shall  make  him  re- 
pent, lie  shall  never  have  from  me  a  son's 
portion." 

"  Do  not  make  threats  in  anger.  Do  not ! 
You  know  that  it  is  wrong.  If  he  has  offended 
you,  say  nothing  about  it — even  to  yourself — as 
to  threatened  punishments,  till  you  can  judge 
of  the  offense  in  cool  blood." 

"I  am  cool,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"No,  my  dear,  no;  you  arc  angry.  And 
have  not  even  read  his  letter  through." 

"I  will  read  his  letter." 

"You  will  see  that  the  marriage  is  not  im- 
minent. It  may  bo  that  even  yet  it  will  never 
take  place.     The  young  lady  has  refused  him."' 

"I'shaw!" 

"You  will  sec  that  she  has  done  so.  lie 
tells  us  so  himself.  And  she  has  behaved  very 
properly." 

"  Why  has  she  refused  him  ?" 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  reason. 
She  feels  that,  with  this  charge  hanging  over 
her  father,  she  is  not  in  a  position  to  become 
the  wife  of  any  gentleman.  You  can  not  but 
respect  her  for  that." 

Then  the  archdeacon  finished  his  son's  letter, 
uttering  sundry  interjections  and  ejaculations 
as  he  did  so. 

"Of  course;  I  knew  it.  I  imderstood  it 
all,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
the  girl.  I  don't  care  whether  she  be  good  or 
bad." 

"Oh,  my  dear!" 

"  I  care  not  at  all — with  reference  to  my  own 
concerns.  Of  course  I  would  wish  that  the 
daughter  of  a  neighboring  clergyman — that  the 
daughter  of  any  neighbor — that  the  daughter 
of  any  one  whatsoever — should  be  good  rather 
than  bad.  But  as  regards  Henry  and  me,  and 
our  mutual  relation,  her  goodness  can  make  no 
difference.  Let  her  be  another  Grizel,  and  still 
such  a  marriage  must  estrange  him  from  me, 
and  me  from  him." 

"But  she  has  refused  him." 

"Yes;  and  what  does  he  say? — that  he  has 
told  her  that  he  will  not  accept  her  refusal.  Of 
course  we  know  what  it  all  means.  The  girl  I 
am  not  judging.  The  girl  I  will  not  judge. 
But  my  own  son,  to  whom  I  have  ever  done  a 
father's  duty  with  a  father's  affectionate  indul- 
gence— him  I  will  judge.  I  have  warned  him, 
and  he  declares  himself  to  be  careless  of  my 
warning.  I  shall  take  no  notice  of  this  letter 
I  shall  neither  write  to  him  about  it  nor  speak 
to  him  about  it.  But  I  charge  you  to  write  to 
him,  and  tell  him  that  if  he  does  this  thing  he 
sliall  not  have  a  child's  portion  from  me.  It  is 
not  tliat  I  will  shorten  that  which  would  have 
been  his  ;  but  he  shall  have — nothing  !"  Then, 
having  spoken  these  words  with  a  solemnity 
which  for  the  moment  silenced  his  wife,  he  got 
up  and  left  the  room.  He  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door,  but,  before  he  had  gone  half 


the  length  of  the  hall  toward  his  own  study,  he 
returned  and  addressed  his  wife  again.  "You 
understand  my  instructions,  I  hope?" 

"What  instructions?" 

"That  you  write  to  Henry  and  tell  him  what 
I  say." 

"  I  will  speak  again  to  you  about  it  by-and-by." 

"I  will  speak  no  more  about  it — not  a  word 
more.  Let  there  be  not  a  word  more  said,  but 
oblige  me  by  doing  what  I  ask  you." 

Then  he  was  again  about  to  leave  the  room, 
but  she  stopped  him.  "Wait  a  moment,  my 
dear." 

"Why  should  I  wait?" 

"That  you  may  listen  to  me.  Surely  you 
will  do  that,  when  I  ask  you.  I  will  write  to 
Henry,  of  course,  if  you  bid  me ;  and  I  will 
give  him  your  message,  whatever  it  may  be ; 
but  not  to-day,  my  dear." 

"Why  not  to-day ?" 

"Because  the  sun  shall  go  down  upon  your 
wrath  before  I  become  its  messenger.  If  you 
choose  to  write  to-day  yourself  I  can  not  help 
it.  I  can  not  hinder  you.  If  I  am  to  write  to 
him  on  your  behalf  I  will  take  my  instructions 
from  you  to-morrow  morning.  When  to-morrow 
morning  comes  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me 
because  of  the  delay." 

The  archdeacon  was  by  no  means  satisfied ; 
but  he  knew  his  wife  too  well,  and  himself  too 
well,  and  the  world  too  well,  to  insist  on  the  im- 
mediate gratification  of  his  passion.  Over  his 
bosom's  mistress  he  did  exercise  a  certain  mar- 
ital control — which  was,  for  instance,  quite  suf- 
ficiently fixed  to  enable  him  to  look  down  with 
thorough  contempt  on  such  a  one  as  Bishop 
Proudie ;  but  he  was  not  a  despot  who  could 
exact  a  passive  obedience  to  every  fantasy.  His 
wife  would  not  have  written  the  letter  for  him 
on  that  day,  and  he  knew  very  well  that  she 
would  not  do  so.  He  knew  also  that  she  was 
right — and  yet  he  regretted  his  want  of  power. 
His  anger  at  the  present  moment  was  very  hot 
— so  hot  that  he  wished  to  wreak  it.  He  knew 
that  it  would  cool  before  the  morrow — and.  no 
doubt,  knew  also  theoretically,  that  it  would  be 
most  fitting  that  it  should  cool.  But  not  the 
less  was  it  a  matter  of  regret  to  him  that  so 
much  good  hot  anger  should  be  wasted,  and 
that  he  could  not  have  his  will  of  his  disobedient 
son  while  it  lasted.  He  might,  no  doubt,  have 
written  himself,  but  to  have  done  so  would  not 
have  suited  him.  Even  in  his  anger  he  could 
not  have  written  to  his  son  without  using  the 
ordinary  terms  of  affection,  and  in  his  anger 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  use  those  terms. 
"  You  will  find  that  I  shall  be  of  the  same  mind 
to-morrow — exactly,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "I 
have  resolved  about  it  long  since  ;  and  it  is  not 
likely  that  I  shall  change  in  a  day."  Then 
he  went  out,  about  his  parish,  intending  to  con- 
tinue to  think  of  his  son's  iniquity,  so  that  he 
might  keep  his  anger  hot — red  hot.  Then  he 
remembered  that  the  evening  would  come,  and 
that  he  would  say  his  prayers ;  and  he  shook  his 
head  in  regret — iu  a  regret  of  which  he  was  only 


144 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAIISET. 


half  conscious,  though  it  was  very  keen,  and 
whicli  lie  did  not  attcmiit  to  analvzc — as  he  rc- 
iiccted  tliat  his  rage  would  hardly  be  able  to 
survive  that  ordeal.  How  common  with  us  it 
is  to  repine  that  the  devil  is  not  stronger  over  us 
than  he  is ! 

The  archdeacon,  who  was  a  very  wealthy  man, 
liad  jiurchascd  a  property  in  I'lumstead,  contig- 
uous to  the  glebe-land,  and  had  thus  come  to 
exercise  in  the  parish  the  double  duty  of  rector 
and  squire.  And  of  this  estate  in  Barsetshire, 
which  extended  beyond  the  confines  of  Plum- 
stead  into  the  neighboring  parish  of  Eiderdown, 
and  which  comprised  also  an  outlying  farm  in  the 
parish  of  Stogpingum — Stoke  Tinguium  would 
have  been  the  proper  name  liad  not  barbarous 
Saxon  tongues  clii>]icd  it  of  its  proper  propor- 
tions— he  had  always  intended  that  his  son 
Charles  should  enjoy  the  inheritance.  There 
was  other  property,  both  in  land  and  in  money, 
for  his  elder  son,  and  other  again  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  his  wife — for  the  archdeacon's  father  had 
been  for  many  years  Bishop  of  Barchester,  and 
sucli  a  bishopi'ic  as  that  of  Barchester  had  been 
in  tliose  days  was  worth  money.  Of  his  inten- 
tion in  this  respect  he  had  never  spoken  in  filain 
language  to  either  of  his  sons ;  but  the  major 
had  for  the  last  year  or  two  enjoyed  the  shoot- 
ing of  the  Barsetshire  covers,  giving  what  orders 
he  pleased  about  the  game  ;  and  the  father  had 
encouraged  him  to  take  something  like  the  man- 
agement of  the  property  into  his  hands.  There 
might  be  some  fifteen  hundred  acres  of  it  alto- 
gether, and  the  archdeacon  had  rejoiced  over  it 
with  his  wife  scores  of  times,  saying  that  there 
was  many  a  squire  in  the  county  whose  elder  son 
would  never  find  himself  half  so  well-placed  as 
would  his  own  younger  son.  Now  there  was  a 
string  of  narrow  woods  called  Plumstead  Cop- 
pices which  ran  from  a  point  near  the  church  right 
across  the  parish,  dividing  the  archdeacon's  land 
from  the  Ullathorne  estate,  and  these  coppices, 
or  belts  of  woodland,  belonged  to  the  archdea- 
con. On  the  morning  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, the  archdeacon,  mounted  on  his  cob,  still 
thinking  of  his  son's  iniquity  and  of  his  own 
fixed  resolve  to  punish  him  as  he  had  said  that 
he  would  punish  him,  opened  with  his  whip  a 
woodland  gate,  from  which  a  green  muddy  lane 
led  through  the  trees  up  to  the  house  of  his  game- 
keeper. The  man's  wife  was  ill,  and  in  his  or- 
dinary way  of  business  the  archdeacon  was  about 
to  call  and  ask  after  her  health.  At  the  door 
of  the  cottage  he  found  the  man,  who  Avas  wood- 
man as  well  as  game-keeper,  and  was  responsi- 
ble for  fences  and  fagots,  as  well  as  for  foxes 
and  pheasants'  eggs. 

"How's  Martha,  Flurry?"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. 

"Thanking  your  reverence,  she  be  a  deal  im- 
proved since  the  mistress  was  here — last  Tues- 
day it  was,  I  think." 

' '  I'm  glad  of  that.  It  was  only  rheumatism, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"Just  a  tich  of  fever  with  it,  your  reverence, 
the  doctor  said." 


/, 


"Tell  her  I  was  asking  after  it.  I  won't 
mind  getting  down  to-day,  as  I  am  rather  busy. 
She  has  had  what  she  wanted  from  the  house?" 

"The  mistress  has  been  very  good  in  that 
way.     She  always  is,  God  bless  her!" 

"Good-day  to  you.  Flurry.  I'll  ask  Mr. 
Sims  to  come  and  read  to  her  a  bit  this  after- 
noon or  to-morrow  morning."  The  archdeacon 
kept  two  curates,  and  Mr.  Sims  was  one  of 
them. 

"She'll  take  it  very  kindly,  your  reverence. 
But  while  your  are  here.  Sir,  there's  just  a  word 
I'd  like  to  say.  I  didn't  happen  to  catch  Mr. 
Henry  when  he  was  here  the  other  day." 

"  Never  mind  Mr.  Henry ;  what  is  it  you 
have  to  say  ?" 

"I  do  think,  I  do  indeed,  Sir,  that  Mr. 
Thome's  man  ain't  dealing  fairly  along  of  the 
foxes.  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  about  it,  only  that 
Mr.  Henry  is  so  particular." 

"  What  about  the  foxes  ?  What  is  he  doing 
with  the  foxes?" 

"Well,  Sir,  he's  a  trapping  on  'cm.  He  is, 
indeed,  your  reverence.  I  wouldn't  speak  if  I 
warn't  well-nigh  mortial  sure." 

Now  the  archdeacon  had  never  been  a  hunt- 
ing man,  tliough  in  his  early  days  many  a  cler- 
gyman had  been  in  the  habit  of  hunting  without 
losing  liis  clerical  character  by  doing  so ;  but 
he  had  lived  all  his  life  among  gentlemen  in 
a  hunting  countj',  and  had  his  own  very  strong 
ideas  about  the  trapping  of  foxes.  Foxes  first, 
and  {ihcasants  afterward,  had  always  been  the 
rule  with  him  as  to  any  land  of  which  he  him- 
self had  had  the  management.  And  no  man 
understood  better  than  he  did  how  to  deal  with 
keepers  as  to  this  matter  of  fox-preserving,  or 
knew  better  that  keepers  will  in  truth  obey  not 
the  words  of  their  employers,  but  their  symjia- 
thies.  "Wish  them  to  have  foxes,  and  pay 
them,  and  they  will  have  them,"  Mr.  Sowcrby 
of  Chaldicotes  used  to  say,  and  he  in  his  day 
was  reckoned  to  be  the  best  preserver  of  foxes 
in  Barsetshire.  "  Tell  them  to  have  them,  and 
don't  wish  it,  and  pay  them  well,  and  you  won't 
have  a  fox  to  interfere  with  your  game.  I  don't 
care  what  a  man  says  to  me,  I  can  read  it  all 
like  a  book  when  I  see  his  covers  drawn."  That 
was  what  poor  Mr.  Sowerby  of  Chaldicotes  used 
to  say,  and  the  archdeacon  had  heard  him  i-ay  it 
a  score  of  times,  and  had  leainid  tlic  lesson. 
But  now  his  heart  was  not  with  the  foxes— and 
especially  not  with  the  foxes  on  behalf  of  his  son 
Henry.  "  I  can't  have  any  meddling  with  Mr. 
Thorne,"  he  said ;   "I  can't,  and  I  won't." 

"  But  I  don't  suppose  it  can  be  Mr.  Thome's 
order,  your  reverence  ;  and  Mr.  Henry  is  so  par- 
ticular." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  Mr.  Thome's  order.  Mr. 
Thorne  has  been  a  hunting  man  all  his  life." 

"  But  he  have  guv'  up  now,  your  reverence. 
He  ain't  a  hunted  these  two  years." 

"I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  have  the  foxes 
trapped." 

"  Not  if  he  knowed  it,  he  wouldn't,  your  rev- 
erence.    A  gentleman  of  the  likes  of  him,  who's 


\. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


145 


'■>"EVKIl   MIND   -Mli.   Ui;MiV." 


been  a  hunting;  over  fifty  jear,  wouldn't  do  the 
likes  of  that ;  but  the  foxes  is  trapped,  and  Mr. 
Henry  '11  be  a  putting  it  on  me  if  I  don't  speak 
out.  They  is  Plumstead  foxes,  too  ;  and  a  vix- 
en was  trapped  just  across  the  field  yonder,  in 
Goshall  Springs,  no  later  than  yesterday  morn- 
ing." Elurry  was  now  thoroughly  in  earnest; 
and,  indeed,  the  trapping  of  a  vixen  in  Febru- 
ary is  a  serious  thing. 

"  Goshall  Springs  don't  belong  to  me,"  said 
the  archdeacon. 


"No,  your  reverence;  they're  on  the  Ulla- 
thorne  property.  But  a  word  from  your  rever- 
ence would  do  it.  Mr.  Henry  thinks  more  of 
tlie  foxes  than  any  tiling.  The  last  word  he  told 
me  was  that  it  would  break  his  heart  if  he  saw 
the  coppices  drawn  blank." 

' '  Then  he  must  break  his  heart. "  The  words 
were  pronounced,  but  the  archdeacon  had  so 
much  command  over  himself  as  to  speak  them 
in  such  a  voice  that  the  man  should  not  hear 
tliem.      But  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  say 


146 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


sonietliing  iluit  tlic  man  sliould  hear.  "I  will 
have  no  incdillinn'  in  the  matter,  Flnrry.  Wheth- 
er there  are  foxes  or  whether  there  arc  not  is 
matter  of  no  f^reat  moment.  I  will  not  have  a 
word  said  to  annoy  IMr.  Thornc."  Then  he 
rode  away,  back  throngh  the  wood  and  out  on 
to  the  road,  and  the  horse  walked  with  him 
leisurely  on,  whither  the  arelidcacon  hardly 
knew — for  he  was  thinking,  thinking,  thinking. 
"Well,  if  that  ain't  the  darn'dest  thing  that 
ever  was, "  said  Flurry  ;  "  but  I'll  tell  the  squire 
about  Thome's  man — darned  if  I  don't  I"  Now 
"the  sfjuire"  was  young  Squire  Gresham,  the 
master  of  the  East  Barsetshire  hounds. 

But  the  archdeacon  went  on  tliinking,  think- 
ing, thinking.  He  could  have  heard  nothing 
of  his  son  to  stir  him  more  in  his  favor  than 
this  strong  evidence  of  his  partiality  for  foxes. 
I  do  not  mean  it  to  be  understood  that  the  arch- 
deacon regarded  fo.xes  as  better  than  active 
charity,  or  a  contented  mind,  or  a  meek  spirit, 
or  than  self-denying  temperance.  No  doubt  all 
these  virtues  did  hold  in  his  mind  their  proper 
jilaccs,  altogether  beyond  contamination  of  fox- 
es. But  he  had  prided  himself  on  thinking  that 
his  son  should  bo  a  country  gentleman,  and, 
probably  nothing  doubting  as  to  tlie  major's  act- 
ive charity  and  other  virtues,  was  delighted  to 
receive  evidence  of  those  tastes  which  he  had 
ever  wished  to  encourage  in  his  son's  character. 
Or  rather,  such  evidence  would  have  delighted 
him  at  any  other  time  than  the  present.  Now 
it  only  added  more  gall  to  his  cup.  "  Why 
should  he  teach  himself  to  care  for  such  things 
wiieu  he  has  not  the  spirit  to  enjoy  them  ?"  said 
the  archdeacon  to  himself.  "He  is  a  fool — a 
fool.  A  man  that  has  been  married  once,  to  go 
crazy  after  a  little  girl  that  has  hardly  a  dress 
to  her  back,  and  who  never  was  in  a  drawing- 
room  in  her  life!  Charles  is  the  eldest,  and  he 
shall  be  the  eldest.  It  will  be  better  to  keep  it 
together.  It  is  the  way  in  which  the  country 
has  become  what  it  is."  He  was  out  nearly  all 
day,  and  did  not  see  his  wife  till  dinner-time. 
Her  father,  Mr.  Harding,  was  still  with  them, 
but  had  breakfitsted  in  his  own  room.  Not  a 
word,  therefore,  was  said  about  Ilcnry  Grantly 
between  the  father  and  mother  on  that  even- 
ing. 

IMrs.  Grantly  was  determined  that,  nnlesi?  pro- 
voked, she  would  say  nothing  to  him  till  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  He  should  sleep  upon  his 
wrath  before  she  spoke  to  him  again.  And  he 
was  equally  unwilling  -to  recur  to  the  subject. 
Had  she  permitted  it,  the  next  morning  would 
have  passed  away,  and  no  word  would  have  been 
spoken.  But  this  would  not  have  suited  her. 
She  had  his  orders  to  write,  and  she  had  un- 
dertaken to  obey  these  orders — with  the  delay 
of  one  day.  Were  she  not  to  write  at  all — or 
in  writing  to  send  no  message  from  the  father, 
there  would  be  cause  for  further  anger.  And  yet 
this,  I  think,  was  what  the  archdeacon  wished. 

"Archdeacon,"  she  said,  "I  shall  write  to 
Henry  to-day." 

"  Very  well." 


"  And  what  am  I  to  say  from  yon  ?" 

"I  told  you  yesterday  what  are  my  inten- 
tions." 

"I  am  not  asking  about  that  now.  Wc  hope 
there  will  be  years  and  years  to  come,  in  which 
you  may  change  them,  and  shajie  them  as  you 
will.     What  shall  I  tell  him  now  from  you  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  him — nothing; 
not  a  word.  lie  knows  what  he  has  to  expect 
from  mc,  for  I  have  told  him.  He  is  acting 
with  his  eyes  open,  and  so  am  I.  If  he  marries 
Miss  Crawley  he  must  live  on  his  own  means. 
I  told  him  that  myself  so  jdainly  that  he  can 
want  no  further  intimation."  Then  INIrs.  Grant- 
ly knew  that  she  was  absolved  from  the  burden 
of  yesterday's  message,  and  she  plumed  herself 
on  the  jirudcnce  of  her  conduct.  On  the  same 
morning  the  archdeacon  wrote  the  following 
note : 

"Dkak  Tiiorxe, — My  man  tells  me  that 
foxes  have  been  trapped  on  Darvell's  farm,  just 
outside  the  coppices.  I  know  nothing  of  it  my- 
self, but  I  am  sure  you'll  look  to  it. 

"Yours  always, 

"T.  Gkan-tlt." 


itfw^s'iwM'^ 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MRS.   PROUDIE    SENDS    TOR    HEU    LAWYER. 

i  There  was  great  dismay  in  Barchester  Pal- 
ace after  the  visit  paid  to  the  bishop  and  Mrs. 
Proudie  by  that  terrible  clerical  offender,  Mr. 
Crawley.  It  will  be  remembered,  perhaps,  how 
he  had  defied  the  bishop  with  spoken  words, 
and  how  he  had  defied  the  bishop's  Avife  by 
speaking  no  words  to  her.  For  the  moment, 
no  doubt.  My.  Crawley  had  the  best  of  it.  Mrs. 
Proudie  acknowledged  to  herself  that  this  was 
the  case ;  but  as  she  was  a  woman  who  had  never 
yet  succumbed  to  an  enemy,  who  had  never — 
if  on  such  an  occasion  I  may  be  allowed  to  use 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


147 


a  scliool-boy's  slang — taken  a  licking  from  any- 
one, it  was  not  likely  that  JNIv.  Crawley  would 
be  lonjj  allowed  to  enjoy  his  triuni])li  in  peace. 
It  would  1)C  odd  if  all  the  weigiit  of  the  palace 
would  not  be  able  to  silence  a  wretch  of  a  ])cr- 
petual  curate  who  bad  already  been  committed 
to  take  his  trial  for  thieving— and  JMrs.  Proudie 
was  determined  that  all  the  weight  of  the  palace 
should  be  used.  As  for  the  bishop,  though  be 
was  not  as  angry  as  bis  wife,  he  was  quite  as 
unhappy,  and  therefore  quite  as  hostile  to  I\Ir. 
Crawley ;  and  was  fully  conscious  that  there 
could  be  no  peace  for  him  now  iintil  IMr.  Craw- 
ley should  be  crushed.  If  only  the  assizes  would' 
come  at  once,  and  get  bim  condemned  out  of 
the  way,  what  a  blessed  thing  it  would  be !  But 
unluckily  it  still  wanted  three  months  to  the 
assizes,  and  during  those  three  months  Mr. 
Crawley  would  be  at  large  and  subject  only  to 
episcopal  authority.  During  that  time  he  could 
not  be  silenced  by  the  arm  of  the  civil  law.  His 
wife  was  not  long  in  expressing  ber  opinion  aft- 
er Mr.  Crawley  had  left  the  palace.  "You 
must  proceed  against  bim  in  the  Court  of  Arches 
— and  that  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "You 
can  do  that,  of  course?  I  know  that  it  will  be 
ex])ensive.  Of  course  it  will  be  expensive.  I 
suppose  it  may  cost  us  some  hundreds  of  pounds ; 
but  duty  is  duty,  my  lord,  and  in  such  a  case  as 
this  your  duty  as  a  bishop  is  paramount." 

The  poor  bishop  knew  iIku  it  was  useless  to 
explain  to  ber  the  various  mistakes  which  she 
made — which  she  was  ever  making — as  to  the 
extent  of  his  powers  and  the  modes  of  procedure 
which  were  open  to  him.  When  he  would  do 
so  she  would  onl}'  rail  at  him  for  being  luke- 
warm in  his  office,  poor  in  spirit,  and  afraid  of 
dealing  roundly  with  those  below  him.  On  the 
present  occasion  he  did  say  a  word,  but  she 
would  not  even  hear  him  to  the  end.  "  Don't 
tell  me  about  rural  deans,  as  if  I  didn't  know. 
The  rural  dean  has  nothing  to  do  with  such  a 
case.  The  man  has  been  committed  for  trial. 
Send  for  J\Ir.  Chadwick  at  once,  and  let  steps 
be  taken  before  you  are  an  hour  older." 

"But,  my  dear,  Mr.  Chadwick  can  do  no- 
thing." 

"Then  I  will  see  Mr.  Chadwick."  And  in 
her  anger  she  did  sit  down  and  write  a  note  to 
Mr.  Chadwick,  begging  him  to  come  over  to  her 
at  the  palace. 

Mr.  Chadwick  was  a  lawyer,  living  in  Bar- 
chester,  who  earned  his  bread  from  ecclesiastical 
business.  His  father,  and  his  uncle,  and  his 
grandfather  and  gramliincles,  Iiad  all  been  con- 
cerned in  the  affairs  of  the  diocese  of  Barches- 
.ter.  His  uncle  had  been  bailifl'to  the  episcopal 
estates,  or  steward  as  he  had  been  called,  in 
Bishop  Grantly's  time,  and  still  contrived  to 
draw  his  income  in  some  shape  from  the  prop- 
erty of  the  see.  The  nei)hew  had  also  been  the 
legal  assistant  of  the  bishop  in  his  latter  days, 
and  had  been  continued  in  that  position  by 
Bishop  Proudie,  not  from  love,  but  from  expe- 
diency. Mr.  John  Chadwick  was  one  of  those 
gentlemen,  two  or  three  of  v.hom  are  to  be  seen 


in  connection  with  every  see — who  seem  to  be 
hybrids — half  lay,  half  cleric.  They  dross  like 
clergymen,  and  aftect  that  mixture  of  clerical 
solemnity  and  clerical  waggishness  which  is  gen- 
erally to  be  found  among  minor  canons  and  vicar 
chorals  of  a  cathedral.  They  live,  or  at  least 
have  their  offices,  half  in  the  Close  and  half  out 
of  it — dwelling  as  it  were  just  on  the  borders  of 
holy  orders.  They  always  wear  white  neck- 
handkerchiefs  and  black  gloAcs;  and  would  be 
altogether  clerical  in  their  ajipearance  were  it 
not  that  as  regards  the  outward  man  they  ira- 
])inge  somewhat  on  the  characteristics  of  the  un- 
dertaker. They  savor  of  the  church,  but  the 
savor  is  of  the  church's  exterior.  Any  stranger 
thrown  into  chance  contact  with  one  of  them 
would,  from  instinct,  begin  to  talk  of  things  ec- 
clesiastical without  any  reference  to  things  the- 
ological or  things  religious  They  are  always 
most  worthy  men,  much  respected  in  tlie  society 
of  the  Close,  and  I  never  heard  of  one  of  them 
whose  wife  was  not  comfortable  or  Mhose  chil- 
dren were  left  without  provision. 

Such  a  one  was  Mr  John  Chadwick,  and  as 
it  was  a  portion  of  his  duties  to  acconijjany  the ' 
bishop  to  consecrations  and  ordinations,  he 
knew  Dr.  Proudie  very  well.  Having  been 
brought  up,  as  it  were,  under  the  very  wing  of 
Bishop  Grantly,  it  could  not  well  he  that  he 
should  love  Bishop  Grantly's  successor.  The 
old  bishop  and  the  new  bishop  had  been  so  dif- 
ferent that  no  man  could  like,  or  even  esteem, 
them  both.  But  Mr.  Chadwick  was  a  prudent 
man,  who  knew  well  the  source  from  which  he 
earned  his  bread,  and  he  had  never  quarreled 
with  Bishop  Proudie.  He  knew  Mrs.  Proudie 
also — of  necessity- — and  when  I  say  of  him  that 
be  had  hitherto  avoided  any  open  quarrel  with 
her,  it  will  I  think  be  allowed  that  he  was  a 
man  of  prudence  and  sngacity. 

But  he  had  sometimes  been  sorely  tried, 
and  he  felt  when  he  got  her  note  that  he  was 
now  about  to  encounter  a  very  sore  trial.  He 
muttered  something  which  might  -have  been 
taken  for  an  oath,  were  it  not  that  the  outward 
signs  of  the  man  gave  warranty  that  no  oath 
could  proceed  from  such  a  one.  Then  he  wrote 
a  .short  note  ]iresenting  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Proudie,  and  saying  that  he  would  call  at  the 
palace  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. 

"But,  in  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  Proudie,  who 
could  not  be  silent  on  the  subject  for  a  moment, 
did  learn  something  of  the  truth  from  ber  hus- 
band. The  information  did  not  come  to  her 
in  the  way  of  instruction,  but  Avas  teased  out 
of  the  unfortunate  man.  "I  know  that  you 
can  proceed  against  him  in  the  Court  of  Arches, 
under  the  '  Church  Discipline  Act,'  "  she  said. 

"No,  my  dear,  no,"  said  the  bishop,  shaking 
his  bead  in  his  misery. 

"Or  in  the  Consistori::!  Court.  It's  all  the 
same  thing." 

"There  must  be  an  inquiry  first — by  his  broth- 
er clergy.  There  must  indeed.  It's  the  only 
way  of  proceeding." 


148 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"But  there  has  been  an  inquiry,  and  ho  has 
been  committed." 

"  That  does  not  signify,  my  dear.  That's  the 
Civil  Law." 

"And  if  tlic  Civil  Law  condemns  him,  and 
locks  him  up  in  prison — as  it  most  certainly  will 
do?" 

"  But  it  liasn't  done  so  yet,  my  dear.  I  really 
think  that  as  it  has  gone  so  far  it  will  be  best 
to  leave  it  as  it  is  till  he  has  taken  his  trial." 

"What !  leave  him  there  after  what  occurred 
tliis  morning  in  this  palace?"  The  jmlace  with 
Mrs.  I'roudic  was  always  a  palace,  and  never 
a  house.  "No,  no;  ten  thousand  times,  no. 
Are  you  not  aware  that  he  insulted  you,  and 
grossly,  most  grossly  insulted  me  ?  I  was  never 
treated  witli  such  insolence  by  an}'  clergyman 
before  since  I  first  came  to  this  palace — never, 
never.  And  we  know  tlie  man  to  be  a  thief — 
we  absolutely  know  it.  Tiiink,  my  lord,  of  the 
souls  of  iiis  people!" 

"Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  said  the 
bishop. 

"  Why  do  you  fret  yourself  in  that  way?" 

"Because  you  will  get  me  into  trouble.  I 
tell  you  the  only  thing  to  be  done  is  to  issue  a 
commission  with  the  rural  dean  at  the  head 
of  it." 

"Then  issue  a  commission." 

"And  they  will  take  three  months." 

"Why  should  they  take  three  months ?  Why 
should  they  take  more  than  three  days — or.thrce 
hours  ?     It  is  all  plain  sailing." 

"These  things  are  never  plain  sailing,  my 
dear.  When  a  bishop  has  to  oppose  any  of  his 
clergy  it  is  always  made  as  difficult  as  possible." 

"More  shame  for  them  who  make  it  so." 

"But  it  is  so.  If  I  were  to  take  legal  pro- 
ceedings against  him,  it  would  cost — oh  dear! — 
more  than  a  thousand  pounds,  I  should  say." 

"  If  it  costs  two,  you  must  do  it."  Mrs.  Prou- 
dic's  anger  was  still  very  hot,  or  she  would  not 
have  spoken  of  an  unremunerative  outlay  of 
money  in  such  language  as  tliat. 

In  this  manner  slie  did  come  to  understand, 
before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Chadwick,  that  lier  hus- 
band could  take  no  legal  steps  towaril  silencing 
Mr.  Crawley  until  a  commission  of  clergymen 
had  been  appointed  to  inquire  into  the  matter, 
and  that  that  commission  should  be  headed  by 
the  rural  dean  within  the  limits  of  whose  rural 
deanery  the  parish  of  Hogglestock  was  situated, 
or  by  some  beneficed  parochial  clergyman  of  re- 
pute in  the  neighborhood.  Now  the  rural  dean 
was  Dr.  Tempest  of  Silverbridge — who  had  held 
that  position  before  the  coming  of  Dr.  Proudic 
to  the  diocese ;  and  there  had  grown  up  in  the 
bosom  of  Mrs.  Proudie  a  strong  feeling  that  un- 
due mercy  had  been  shown  to  Mr.  Crawley  by 
the  magistrates  of  Silverbridcc,  of  whom  Dr. 
Tempest  had  been  one.  "  These  magistrates 
had  taken  bail  for  his  appearance  at  the  assizes, 
instead  of  committing  him  to  prison  at  once — as 
they  were  bound  to  do,  when  such  an  offense  as 
that  had  been  committed  by  a  clergyman.  But , 
no — even  though  there  was  a  clergyman  among  I 


them,  they  had  thought  nothing  of  the  souls  of 
the  poor  iicojile  !"  In  such  language  Mrs.  Prou- 
die had  spoken  of  the  affair  at  Silverbridge,  and 
having  once  committed  herself  to  such  an  opin- 
ion, of  course  she  thought  that  Dr.  Tempest 
would  go  through  fire  and  water — would  omit 
no  stretch  of  what  little  judicial  power  might  be 
committed  to  his  hands — with  tlie  view  of  op- 
posing his  bishop  and  maintaining  the  culprit 
in  his  position.  "In  such  a  case  as  this  can 
not  you  name  an  acting  rural  dean  yourself? 
Dr.  Tempest,  you  know,  is  very  old."  "No, 
my  dear;  no,  I  can  not."  "You  can  ask  Mr. 
Chadwick,  at  any  rate,  and  then  you  could  name 
Mr.  Thumble."  "But  Mr.  Thumble  doesn't 
even  hold  a  living  in  the  diocese.  Oh  dear! 
oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  And  so  the  matter  rested 
until  Mr.  Chadwick  came. 

Mrs.  Proudie  had  no  doubt  intended  to  have 
Mr.  Chadwick  all  to  herself — at  any  rate  so  to 
encounter  him  in  the  first  instance.  But  hav- 
ing been  at  length  convinced  that  the  inquiry 
by  the  rural  dean  was  really  necessary  as  a  pre- 
liminary, and  having  also  slcj)!  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  expenditure,  she  gave  directions  that  the 
lawyer  sliould  be  shown  into  tiie  bishop's  study, 
and  she  took  care  to  be  absent  at  the  moment 
of  his  arrival.  Of  course  she  did  not  intend 
that  Mr.  Chadwick  should  leave  the  palace  with- 
out having  heard  what  slie  had  to  say,  but  she 
thought  that  it  would  be  well  that  lie  should  be 
made  to  conceive  that  though  the  summons  had 
been  written  by  her,  it  had  really  been  intended 
on  the  part  of  the  bishop.  "  Mr.  Chadwick 
will  be  with  you  at  eleven,  bishop,"  she  said,  as 
she  got  up  from  the  breakfast-table,  at  which 
she  left  his  lordship  with  two  of  his  daughters 
and  with  a  married  son-in-law,,  a  clergyman 
wlio  was  staying  in  the  house.  "Very  well, 
my  dear,"  said  tlie  bishop,  with  a  smile — for  he  ' 
was  anxious  not  to  betray  any  vexation  at  his 
wife's  interference  before  his  daughters  or  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Tickler.  But  he  understood  it  all. 
Mr.  Chadwick  had  been  sent  for  with  reference 
to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  he  was  driven — absolutely 
driven,  to  propose  to  his  lawyer  tliat  this  com- 
mission of  inquiry  should  be  issued. 

Punctually  at  eleven  Mr.  Chadwick  came, 
wearing  a  very  long  fiice  as  he  entered  the  palace 
door — for  he  felt  that  he  would  in  all  pi'obability 
be  now  compelled  to  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Proudie. 
Much  he  coukl  bear,  but  there  was  a  limit  to 
his  endurance.  She  had  never  absolutely  sent 
for  him  before,  though  she  had  often  interfered 
with  him.  "I  shall  have  to  tell  her  a  bit  of 
my  mind,"  he  said,  as  he  stepped  across  the 
Close,  habited  in  his  best  suit  of  black,  with 
most  exact  white  cravat,  and  yet  looking  not 
quite  like  a  clergyman — with  some  touch  of  the 
undertaker  in  his  gait.  When  he  found  that 
ho  was  shown  into  the  bishop's  room,  and  that 
the  bishop  was  there — and  the  bishop  only — his 
mind  was  relieved.  It  would  have  been  better 
that  the  bishop  should  have  written  himself,  or 
that  the  chaplain  should  have  written  in  his  lord- 
ship's name  ;  that,  however,  was  a  trifle. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


149 


But  the  l)ishop  did  not  know  what  to  say  to 
him.  If  he  intended  to  direct  an  inquiry  to  be 
made  by  the  rural  dean,  it  would  be  by  no  means 
becoming  that  lie  should  consult  Mr.  Chadwick 
as  to  doing  so.  It  might  be  well,  or  if  not  well 
at  any  rate  not  improper,  that  he  should  make 
the  application  to  Dr.  Tempest  through  Mr. 
Ciiadwick ;  but  in  that  case  he  must  give  the 
order  at  once,  and  he  still  wished  to  avoid  it  if  it 
were  possible.  Since  he  had  been  in  the  diocese 
no  case  so  grave  as  this  had  been  pushed  upon 
him.  The  intervention  of  the  rural  dean  in  an 
ordinary  way  he  had  used — had  been  made  to 
use — more  than  once  by  his  wife.  A  vicar  had 
been  absent  a  little  too  long  from  one  parish, 
and  there  had  been  rumors  about  brandy-and- 
water  in  another.  Once  he  had  been  very  near- 
ly in  deep  water  because  Mrs.  Proudie  had  taken 
it  in'  dudgeon  that  a  certain  young  rector,  who 
had  been  left  a  widower,  had  a  very  pretty  gov- 
erness for  his  children  ;  and  there  had  been  that 
case,  sadly  notorious  in  the  diocese  at  the  time, 
of  our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Robarts  of  Farmley, 
when  the  bailiffs  were  in  his  house  because  he 
couldn't  pay  his  debts — or  rather,  the  debts  of  his 
friend  for  whom  he  had  signed  bills.  But  in  all 
these  cases  some  good  fortune  had  intervened, 
and  he  had  been  saved  from  the  terrible  neces- 
sity of  any  ulterior  process.  But  now — now  he 
was  being  driven  beyond  himself,  and  all  to  no 
purpose.  If  Mrs.  Proudie  would  only  wait  three 
months  the  civil  law  would  do  it  all  for  him. 
But  here  was  Mr.  Chadwick  in  the  room,  and 
he  knew  that  it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  at- 
tempt to  talk  to  Mr.  Chadwick  about  other  mat- 
ters, and  so  dismiss  him'.  The  wife  of  his  bo- 
som would  be  down  upon  them  before  Chadwick 
'  could  be  out  of  the  room. 
;  "H — m — ha!  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Chadwick 
— won't  you  sit  down  ?"  Mr.  Chadwick  thanked 
his  lordship,  and  sat  down.  "It's  very  cold, 
isn't  it,  Mr.  Chadwick?" 

"A  hard  frost,  my  lord,  but  a  beautiful  day." 

"AVon't  you  come  near  the  fire?"  The 
bishop  knew  that  Mrs.  Proudie  was  on  the  road, 
and  liad  an  eye  to  the  proper  strategical  position 
of  his  forces.  Mrs.  Proudie  would  certainly 
take  up  her  position  in  a  certain  chair  from 
whence  the  light  enabled  her  to  rake  her  hus- 
band thoroughly.  What  advantage  she  might 
have  from  this  he  could  not  prevent — but  he 
could  so  place  Mr.  Chadwick  that  the  lawyer 
should  be  more  within  the  reach  of  liis  eye  than 
that  of  his  wife.  So  the  bishop  pointed  to  an 
anu-chair  opposite  to  himself  and  near  the  fire, 
and  ]\Ir.  Chadwick  seated  himself  accordingly. 

'•This  is  a  very  sad  affair  about  Mr.  Craw- 
ley," said  the  bishop. 

'•Very  sad  indeed,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I 
never  pitied  a  man  so  much  in  my  life,  my 
lord." 

This  was  not  exactly  the  line  which  the  bish- 
!']>  was  desirous  of  taking.  "Of  course  he  is 
to  be  pitied — of  course  he  is.  But  from  all  I 
bear,  Mr.  Chadwick,  I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid 
V  c  must  not  acquit  him." 


"As  to  that,  my  lord,  he  has  to  stand  his 
trial,  of  course." 

"  But  you  see,  Mr.  Chadwick,  regarding  him 
as  a  beneficed  clergyman — with  a  cure  of  souls 
— the  question  is  whether  I  should  be  justified 
in  leaving  him  where  he  is  till  his  trial  shall 
come  on." 

"  Of  course  your  lordship  knows  best  about 
that,  but — " 

"I  know  there  is  a  difficulty.  I  know  that. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  in  the  interests 
of  the  parish  I  am  bound  to  issue  a  commission 
of  inquiry." 

"I  believe  your  lordship  has  attempted  to  si- 
lence him,  and  that  he  has  refused  to  comply." 

"  I  thought  it  better  for  every  body's  sake — 
especially  for  his  own,  that  he  should  for  a 
while  be  relieved  from  his  duties ;  but  he  is  an 
obstinate  man,  a  very  obstinate  man.  I  made 
the  attempt  with  all  consideration  for  his  feel- 
ings." 

' '  He  is  hard  put  to  it,  my  lord.  I  know  the 
man  and  his  pride.  The  dean  has  spoken  of 
him  to  me  more  than  once,  and  nobody  knows 
him  so  well  as  the  dean.  If  I  might  venture 
to  offer  an  opinion — " 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Chadwick,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie,  coming  into  the  room  and  taking  her 
accustomed  seat.  "No,  thank  you,  no;  I  will 
stay  away  from  the  fire,  if  you  please.  His 
lordship  has  spoken  to  you,  no  doubt,  about  this 
unfortunate,  wretched  man?" 

"We  are  speaking  of  him  now,  my  dear." 

"  Something  must  of  course  be  done  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  crying  disgrace  of  having  such  a 
man  preaching  from  a  pulpit  in  this  diocese. 
When  I  think  of  the  souls  of  the  people  in  that 
poor  village  my  hair  literally  stands  on  end. 
And  then  he  is  disobedient !" 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  said  the  bishop. 
"  It  would  have  been  so  much  better  for  himself 
if  he  would  have  allowed  me  to  provide  quietly 
for  the  services  till  the  trial  be  over." 

"  I  could  have  told  you,  my  lord,  that  he 
would  not  do  that  from  what  1  knew  of  him," 
said  Mr.  Chadwick. 

"  But  he  must  do  it,"  said  Mrs,  Proudie. 
"He  must  be  made  to  do  it." 

"His lordship  will  find  it  difficult,"  said  Mr. 
Chadwick. 

"I  can  issue  a  commission,  you  know,  to  the 
rural  dean,"  said  the  bishop,  mildly. 

"Yes,  j-ou  can  do  that.  And  Dr.  Tempest 
in  two  months'  time  will  have  named  his  as- 
sessors— " 

"Dr.  Tempest  must  not  name  them;  the 
bishop  must  name  them,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"It  is  customary  to  leave  that  to  the  rural 
dean,"  said  Mr.  Chadwick.  "The  bishop  no 
doubt  can  object  to  any  one  named." 

"  And  can  specially  select  any  clergyman  he 
])leases  from  tlie  archdeaconry,"  said  the  bishop. 
"  I  have  kuown  it  done." 

"The  rural  dean  in  such  case  has  probably 
been  an  old  man,  and  not  active,"  said  the  law- 
yer. 


150 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  And  Dr.  Tempest  is  a  very  old  man,"  said 
Jlrs.  Proudic,  "  and  in  such  a  matter  not  at  all 
trust-worthy.  He  was  one  of  the  magistrates 
who  took  bail." 

"His  lordship  could  hardly  set  him  aside," 
said  the  lawyer.  "At  any  rate  I  would  not 
reconinicnd  iiim  to  try.  I  tiiink  you  might  sug- 
gest a  commission  of  five,  and  propose  two  of 
the  number  yourself.  I  do  not  think  that  in 
such  a  case  Dr.  Tempest  would  raise  any  ques- 
tion." 

At  last  it  was  settled  in  this  way.  Mr. 
Chadwick  was  to  prcjjarc  a  letter  to  Dr.  Tem- 
pest, for  the  bishop's  signature,  in  which  the 
doctor  should  be  requested,  as  the  rural  dean  to 
whom  Mr.  Crawley  was  subject,  to  hold  a  com- 
mission of  five  to  inquire  into  ISIr.  Crawley's 
conduct.  The  letter  was  to  exjilain  to  Dr. 
Tempest  that  the  bishop,  moved  by  his  solic- 
itude for  the  souls  of  the  jicople  of  Hogglestock, 
had  endeavored,  "in  a  friendly  way,"  to  induce 
Mr.  Crawley  to  desist  from  his  ministrations ; 
but  that  having  failed  through  Mr.  Crawley's  ob- 
stinacy, he  had  no  alternative  but  to  proceed  in 
this  way.  "You  had  better  say  that  his  lord- 
ship, as  bishop  of  the  diocese,  can  take  no  heed 
of  the  coming  trial,"  said  IMrs.  I'roudic.  "  I 
think  his  lordship  had  better  say  nothing  at  all 
about  the  trial,"  said  Mr.  Chadwick.  "I  think 
that  will  be  best,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  But  if  they  report  against  him,"  said  ]\Ir. 
Chadwick,  "you  can  only  then  proceed  in  the 
ecclesiastical  court — at  your  own  expense." 

"  He'll  hardly  bo  so  obstinate  as  that,"  said 
the  bishop. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  him,  my  lord," 
said  the  lawyer.  The  bishop,  thinking  of  the 
scene  which  had  taken  place  in  that  very  room 
only  yesterday,  felt  that  he  did  know  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, and  felt  also  that  the  hope  which  ho  had 
just  expressed  was  one  in  which  he  himself  put 
no  trust.  But  something  might  turn  up ;  and 
it  was  devoutly  to  be  hoped  that  Dr.  Temiiest 
would  take  a  long  time  over  his  inquiry.  Tlie 
assizes  might  come  on  as  soon  as  it  was  term- 
inated, or  very  shortly  afterward ;  and  then 
every  thing  might  be  Avell.  "You  won't  find 
Dr.  Tempest  very  ready  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Chad- 
wick. The  bishop  in  his  heart  was  comforted 
by  the  words.  "  But  he  must  be  made  to  be 
ready  to  do  his  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  impe- 
riously. I\Ir.  Chadwick  slirugged  his  shoulders, 
then  got  up,  spoke  his  farewell  little  speeches, 
and  left  the  palace. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

LILT  DALIi  WRITES  TWO  WORDS    IN  HER   BOOK. 

John  E.vmes  saw  nothing  more  of  Lily  Dale 
till  he  packed  up  his  portmanteau,  left  his  mo- 
ther's house,  and  went  to  stay  for  a  few  days 
with  his  old  friend  Lady  Julia ;  and  this  did 
not  happen  till  he  had  been  above  a  week  at 
Guestwick.     Mrs.  Dale  repeatedly  said  that  it 


was  odd  that  Johnny  did  not  come  to  sec  them  ; 
and  Grace,  s])eaking  of  him  to  Lily,  asked  why 
he  did  not  come.  Lily,  in  her  funny  way,  de- 
clared that  he  would  come  soon  enough.  But 
even  wliile  she  was  joking  there  was  somctliing 
of  half-expressed  consciousness  in  her  words — 
as  though  she  felt  it  to  be  foolish  to  sjieak  of 
his  coming  as  she  might  of  that  of  any  other 
young  man,  before  people  who  knew  her  whole 
story.  "He'll  come  quick  enough.  He  knows, 
and  I  know,  that  his  coming  will  do  no  good. 
Of  course  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him.  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  glad  to  see  him?  I've  known 
him  and  liked  him  all  my  life.  I  liked  hini 
when  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much  about  him 
to  like,  and  now  that  he  is  clever,  and  agreea- 
ble, and  good-looking — which  he  never  was  as  a 
lad — why  shouldn't  I  go  on  liking  him  ?  He's 
more  like  a  brother  to  me  than  any  body  else 
I've  got.  James" — James  was  her  brotlier-in- 
law.  Dr.  Crofts — "  tliinks  of  nothing  but  his  pa- 
tients and  his  babies,  and  my  cousin  Bernard  is 
much  too  grand  a  person  for  me  to  take  the  lib- 
erty of  loving  him.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  sec 
Johnny  Eames."  From  all  which  Mrs.  Dale 
was  led  to  believe  that  Johnny's  case  was  still 
hopeless.  And  how  should  it  not  be  hopeless? 
Had  Lily  not  confessed  within  the  last  week  or 
two  that  she  still  loved  Adolphus  Crosbie  ? 

IMrs.  Eamcs  also,  and  Mar}',  were  surprise^ 
that  John  did  not  go  over  to  Allington.  "Yoa 
haven't  seen  ]Mrs.  Dale  yet,  or  the  squire?"  said 
his  mother. 

"  I  shall  see  them  when  I  am  at  the  cottage."] 

"Yes;  no  doubt.  But  it  seems  strange  that! 
you  should  be  hei'e  so  long  without  going  to, 
them." 

"There's  time  enough,"  said  he.  "I  shall 
have  nothing  else  to  do  when  I'm  at  the  cot- 
tage." Then,  when  Mary  had  spoken  to  him 
again  in  private,  expressing  a  hope  that  there 
was  "nothing  wrong,"  he  had  been  very  angry^ 
with  his  sister.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
wrong  ?  What  rubbish  you  girls  talk !  and 
you  never  have  any  delicacy  of  feeling  to  make 
you  silent." 

"Oh,  John,  don't  say  such  hard  tilings  as 
that  of  me !" 

"  Biit  I  do  say  them.  You'll  make  me  swear 
among  you  some  day  that  I  will  never  see  Lily 
Dale  again.  As  it  is,  I  wish  I  never  had  seem 
her — simply  because  I  am  so  dunned  about  it.'^ 
In  all  of  which  I  think  that  Johnny  was  manl 
festly  wrong.  When  the  humor  was  on  him 
he  was  fond  enougii  of  talking  about  Lily  Dale 
Had  he  not  taught  her  to  do  so,  I  doubt  wheth-i 
er  his  sister  would  ever  have  mentioned  Lily's 
name  to  him.  "I  did  not  mean  to  dun  you 
John,"  said  Mary,  meekly. 

But  at  last  he  went  to  Lady  Julia's,  and  wai 
no  sooner  there  than  he  was  ready  to  start  foi 
Allington.  When  Lady  Julia  spoke  to  hin 
about  Lily  he  did  not  venture  to  snub  her 
Indeed,  of  all  his  friends.  Lady  Julia  was  th< 
one  with  whom  on  this  subject  he  allowed  him 
self  the  most  unrestricted  confidence.    He  cami 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


151 


over  one  day,  just  before  dinner,  and  declared 
his  intention  of  walking  over  to  AUington  im- 
mediately after  breakfast  on  tlic  followinp;  morn- 
ing.     "It's  the  last  time,  Lady  Julia,"  he  said. 

"  So  you  say,  Johnny." 

"  And  so  I  mean  it !  "What's  the  good  of  a 
man  frittering  away  his  life?  What's  the  good 
of  wishing  for  what  you  can't  get?" 

"Jacob  was  not  in  such  a  hurry  when  he 
wished  for  Rachel." 

"That  was  all  very  well  for  an  old  patriarch 
who  had  seven  or  eight  hundred  years  to  live." 

"  My  dear  John,  you  forget  your  Bible. 
Jacob  did  not  live  half  as  long  as  that." 

"He  lived  long  enough,  and  slowly  enough, 
to  be  able  to  wait  fourteen  years ;  and  then  he 
had  sonictliing  to  comfort  him  in  the  mean 
time.  And  after  all,  Lady  Julia,  it's  more  than 
seven  years  since  I  "first  thouglit  Lily  was  the 
prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw." 

"How  old  are  you  now?" 

"Twenty-seven — and  she's  twenty-four." 

"You've  time  enough  yet,  if  you'll  only  be 
patient." 

"I'll  be  patient  for  to-morrow.  Lady  Julia, 
but  never  again.  Not  that  I  mean  to  quarrel 
with  her.  .  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  quarrel 
with  a  girl  because  she  can't  like  me.  I  know 
how  it  all  is.  If  that  scoundrel  had  not  come 
across  my  ])ath  just  when  he  did — in  that  very 
nick  of  time,  all  might  have  been  right  betwixt 
her  and  me.  I  couldn't  have  offered  to  marry 
her  before,  when  I  hadn't  as  much  income  as 
would  have  found  her  in  bread-and-butter.  And 
then,  just  as  better  times  came  to  me,  he  stepped 
in !  I  wonder  whether  it  will  be  expected  of  me 
that  I  should  forgive  him?" 

"As  far  as  that  goes,  you  have  no  right  to  be 
angry  with  him." 

"But  I  am— all  the  same." 

"And  so  was  I — but  not  for  stepping  in,  as 
you  call  it." 

"You  and  I  are  different,  Lady  Julia.  I 
was  angry  with  him  for  stepping  in ;  but  I 
couldn't  show  it.  Then  he  stepped  out,  and  I 
did  manage  to  show  it.  And  now  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  lie  doesn't  step  in  again.  After  all, 
why  should  he  have  such  a  power?  It  was 
simply  the  nick  of  time  which  gave  it  to  him." 
That  John  Eames  should  be  able  to  find  some 
iconsolation  in  this  consideration  is  devoutly  to 
be  hoped  by  us  all. 

There  was  nothing  said  about  Lily  Dale  the 
•next  morning  at  breakfast.  Lady  Julia  ob- 
served tliat  John  was  dressed  a  little  more  neatly 
than  usual — though  the  change  was  not  such  as 
tij  have  called  for  her  special  observation  had 
^'le  not  known  the  business  on  which  he  was  in- 
tent. 

"You  have  nothing  to  send  to  the  Dales?" 
i;c  said,  as  he  got  up  from  the  table. 

'•  Nothing  but  my  love,  Johnny." 

•■  No  worsted  or  embroidery  work — or  a  pot 
i"  ^pocial  jam  for  the  squire?" 
'     "No,  Sir,  nothing;  tliough  I  should  like  to 
kuake  you  carry  a  pair  of  panniers,  if  I  could." 


"They  would  become  me  well, "  said  Johnny, 
"for  I  am  going  on  an  ass's  errand."  Then, 
without  waiting  for  the  word  of  affection  which 
was  on  the  old  woman's  lij)s,  he  got  himself  out 
of  the  room,  and  started  on  his  journey. 

Tiie  walk  was  only  three  miles,  and  the 
weather  was  diy  and  frosty,  and  he  had  come 
to  the  turn  leading  up  to  tlie  church  and  the 
squire's  house  almost  before  he  remembered  that 
he  was  near  AUington.  Here  he  paused  for  a 
moment  to  think.  If  he  continued  his  way 
down  by  the  "  Red  Lion"  and  through  Ailing- 
ton  Street,  he  must  knock  at  Mrs.  Dale's  door, 
and  ask  for  admission  by  means  of  the  servant 
— as  would  be  done  by  any  ordinary  visitor. 
But  he  could  make  his  way  on  to  the  lawn  by 
going  up  beyond  the  wall  of  the  church-yard 
and  through  the  squire's  garden.  He  knew  the 
path  well — very  well;  and  he  thought  that  he 
might  take  so  much  liberty  as  that,  both  with 
the  squire  and  with  Mrs.  Dale,  although  his 
visits  to  AUington  were  not  so  frequent  now  as 
they  used  to  bo  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood.  He 
did  not  wish  to  be  admitted  by  the  servant,  and 
therefore  he  went  through  the  gardens.  Luck- 
ily he  did  not  see  the  squire,  who  would  hare 
detained  him,  and  he  escaped  from  Hopkins, 
the  old  gardener,  with  little  more  than  a  word. 
"  I'm  going  down  to  see  the  ladies,  Hopkins ;  I 
suppose  I  shall  find  them?-"  And  then,  while 
Hopkins  was  arranging  his  spade  so  that  he 
might  lean  upon  it  for  a  little  chat,  Johnny  was 
gone  and  had  made  his  M^aj^  into  the  other  gar- 
den. He  had  thought  it  possible  that  he  might 
meet  Lily  out  among  the  walks  by  herself,  and 
such  a  meeting  as  this  Avould  have  suited  him 
better  than  any  other.  And  as  he  crossed  the 
little  bridge  wliich  separated  the  gardens  he 
thought  of  more  than  one  such  meeting — of  one 
especial  occasion  on  which  he  had  first  ventured 
to  tell  her  in  plain  words  that  he  loved  her.  But 
before  that  day  Crosbie  had  come  there,  and  at 
the  moment  in  which  he  was  speaking  of  his 
love  she  regarded  Crosbie  as  an  angel  of  light 
upon  the  earth.  What  hope  could  there  have 
been  for  him  then  ?  What  use  was  there  in  his 
telling  such  a  tale  of  love  at  that  time  ?  When 
he  told  it  he  knew  that  Crosbie  had  been  before 
him.  He  knew  that  Crosbie  was  at  that  moment 
the  angel  of  light.  But  as  he  had  never  before 
been  able  to  speak  of  his  love,  so  was  he  then 
unable  not  to  speak  of  it.  He  had  spoken,  and 
of  course  had  been  simply  rebuked.  Since  that 
day  Crosbie  had  ceased  to  be  an  angel  of  light, 
and  he,  John  Eames,  had  spoken  often.  But 
he  had  spoken  in  vain,  and  now  he  ^^xuld  speak 
once  again. 

He  went  through  the  garden  and  over  the 
lawn  belonging  to  the  Small  House  and  saw  no 
one.  He  forgot,  I  think,  that  ladies  do  not 
come  out  to  pick  roses  when  the  ground  is  frozen, 
and  that  croquet  is  not  often  in  progress  with 
the  hoar-frost  on  the  grass.  So  he  walked  up 
to  the  little  terrace  before  the  drawing-room, 
and  looking  in  saw  Jlrs.  Dale,  and  Lily,  and 
Grace  at  their  morning  work.     Lily  was  draw- 


152 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


in;^,  ajul  Mrs.  Dale  was  writinj^,  and  Grace  had 
her  needle  in  her  hand.  As  it  happened,  no 
one  at  first  perceived  him,  and  he  had  time  to 
feci  that  after  all  he  would  have  managed  better 
if  he  had  been  announced  in  the  usual  way. 
As,  however,  it  was  now  necessary  that  he  should 
announce  himself,  he  knocked  at  tlic  window, 
and  they  all  immediately  looked  up  and  saw 
him.  "It's  my  cousin  John,"  said  Grace. 
"Oh,  Johnny,  how  are  you  at  last?"  said  Mrs. 
Dale.  But  it  was  Lily  who,  without  sjicaking, 
opened  the.  window  for  him,  who  was  the  first 
to  give  him  her  hand,  and  who  led  him  through 
into  the  room. 

"  It's  a  great  shamo  my  coming  in  this  way," 
said  John,  "and  letting  all  the  cold  air  in  upon 
you." 

"  We  shall  survive  it,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  "  I 
suppose  you  have  just  come  down  from  my  broth- 
er-in-law ?" 

"No;  I  have  not  seen  the  squire  as  yet.  I 
will  do  so  before  I  go  back,  of  course.  But  it 
seemed  such  a  commonplace  sort  of  thing  to  go 
round  by  the  village." 

"We  arc  very  glad  to  see  you,  by  whatever 
way  von  como — arc  we  not,  mamma?"  said 
Lily. " 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  We  were  only 
saying  yesterday  that  as  you  had  been  in  the 
country  a  fortnight  without  coming  to  us,  we 
did  not  think  we  would  be  at  homo  when  you 
did  come." 

"But  I  have  caught  you,  you  see,"  said 
Johnny. 

And  so  they  went  on,  chatting  of  old  times 
and  of  mutual  friends  very  comfortably  for  full 
an  hour.  And  there  was  some  serious  conver- 
sation about  Grace's  father  and  his  affairs,  and 
John  declared  his  opinion  that  Mr.  Crawley 
ought  to  go  to  his  uncle,  Thomas  Toogood,  not 
at  all  knowing  at  that  time  that  Mr.  Crawley 
himself  had  come  to  the  same  opinion.  And 
John  gave  them  an  elaborate  description  of  Sir 
llaffleBuffle,  standing  up  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  with  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  speaking  with 
a  loud,  harsh  voice,  to  show  them  the  way  in 
which  he  declaimed  that  that  gentleman  received 
his  inferiors ;  and  then  bowing  and  scraping 
and  rubbing  his  hands  together  and  simpering 
with  would-be  softness — declaring  that  after 
that  fashion  Sir  Raffle  received  his  superiors. 
And  they  were  very  merry — so  that  no  one 
would  have  thought  that  Johnn/  was  a  de- 
spondent lover,  now  bent  on  throwing  the  dice 
for  his  last  stake  ;  or  that  Lily  was  aware  that 
she  was  in  the  presence  of  one  lover,  and  that 
she  was  like  to  fall  to  the  gi'ound  between  two 
stools — having  two  lovers,  neither  of  whom 
conld  serve  her  turn. 

"How  can  you  consent  to  serve  him  if  he's 
such  a  man  as  that?"  said  Lily,  speaking  of 
Sir  Raffle. 

"  I  do  not  serve  him.  I  serve  the  Queen — 
or  rather  the  public.  I  don't  take  his  wages, 
and  he  does  not  play  his  tricks  with  me.  He 
knows  that  he  can't.     lie  has  tried  it,  and  has 


failed.  And  he  only  keeps  me  where  I  am  be- 
cause I've  had  some  money  left  me.  He  thinks 
it  fine  to  have  a  private  secretary  with  a  for- 
tune. I  know  that  he  tells  people  all  manner 
of  lies  about  it,  making  it  out  to  be  five  times 
as  much  as  it  is.  Dear  old  Iluffle  Snuffle.  He 
is  such  an  ass ;  and  yet  he's  had  wit  enough  to 
get  to  the  top  of  the  tree,  and  to  keep  himself 
there.  He  began  the  world  without  a  penny. 
Now  he  has  got  a  handle  to  his  name,  and  ho'U 
live  in  clover  all  his  life.  It's  very  odd,  isn't  it, 
Mrs.  Dale  ?" 

"  I  suppose  he  docs  his  work?" 

"  When  men  get  so  high  as  that,  there's  no 
knowing  whether  they  work  or  whether  they 
don't.  There  isn't  much  for  them  to  do,  as  far 
as  I  can  see.  They  have  to  look  beautiful,  and 
frighten  the  young  ones." 

"And  does  Sir  Raffle  look  beautiful?"  Lily 
asked. 

"After  a  fashion,  he  docs.  There  is  some- 
thing imposing  about  such  a  man  till  you're 
used  to  it,  and  can  see  through  it.  Of  course 
it's  all  padding.  There  are  men  who  work,  no 
doubt.  But  among  the  bigwigs,  and  bishops, 
and  cabinet  ministers  I  fancy  that  the  looking 
beautiful  is  the  chief  part  of  it.  Dear  me,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  it's  luncheon-time?" 

But  it  was  lunclieon-time,  and  not  only  had  he 
not  as  yet  said  a  word  of  all  that  which  he  had 
come  to  say,  but  had  not  as  yet  made  any  move 
toward  getting  it  said.  How  was  he  to  arrange 
that  Lily  should  be  left  alone  with  him  ?  Lady 
Julia  had  said  that  she  should  not  expect  him 
back  till  dinner-time,  and  he  had  answered  her 
lackadaisically,  "  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be 
there  above  ten  minutes.  Ten  minutes  will  say 
all  I've  got  to  say,  and  do  all  I've  got  to  do.  And 
then  I  suppose  I  shall  go  and  cut  names  about 
upon  bridges — eh.  Lady  Julia?"  Lady  Julia 
understood  his  words ;  for  once,  upon  a  former 
occasion,  she  had  found  him  cutting  Lily's 
name  on  the  rail  of  a  wooden  bridge  in  her 
brother's  grounds.  But  he  had  now  been  a 
couple  of  hours  at  the  Small  House,  and  had 
not  said  a  word  of  that  which  he  had  come  to 
say. 

"Are  you  going  to  walk  out  with  us  aftet 
lunch  ?"  said  Lily. 

"He  will  have  had  walking  enough,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale. 

"We'll  convoy  him  back  part  of  the  way," 
said  Lily. 

"I'm  not  going  yet,"  said  Johnny,  "unless 
you  turn  me  out." 

"But  we  must  have  our  walk  before  it  is 
dark,"  said  Lily. 

"  You  might  go  up  with  him  to  your  uncle,' 
said  Mrs.  Dale.  "  Indeed,  I  promised  to  go  UJ 
myself,  and  so  did  you,  Grace,  to  see  the  mi- 
croscope. I  heard  Mr.  Dale  give  orders  tha 
one  of  those  long-lqgged  reptiles  should  b, 
caught  on  purpose  for  your  inspection." 
'  Mrs.  Dale's  little  scheme  for  bringing  the  twi 
together  was  very  transparent,  but  it  was  no 
the  less  wise  on  that  account.      Schemes  wil. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


153 


often  be  successful,  let  tliem  be  ever  so  trans- 
parent. Little  intrigues  become  necessary,  not 
to  conquer  nnwilling  people,  but  people  who 
are  willing  enough,  who,  nevertheless,  can  not 
give  way  except  under  the  machinations  of  an 
intrigue. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  mind  looking  at  the  long- 
legged  ci-caturc  to-day,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  must  go,  of  course,"  said  Grace. 

Lily  said  nothing  at  the  moment  either  about 
the  long-legged  creature  or  the  walk.  That 
wJiich  must  be,  must  be.  She  knew  well  why 
John  Eames  had  come  there.  She  knew  that 
the  visits  to  his  mother  and  to  Lady  Julia  would 
never  have  been  made  but  that  he  might  hava' 
this  interview.  And  he  had  a  right  to  demand', 
at  any  rate,  as  much  as  that.  That  which  must 
be,  must  be.  And  therefore  when  both  Mrs. 
Dale  and  Grace  stoutly  maintained  their  purpose 
of  going  up  to  the  squire,  Lily  neither  attempted 
to  persuade  John  to  acconijiany  them,  nor  said 
that  she  would  do  so  herself. 

"I  will  convoy  you  homo  myself,"  she  said, 
"  and  Grace,  when  she  has  done  with  the  beetle, 
shall  come  and  meet  me.     Won't  you,  Grace  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  "We  arc  not  helpless  young  ladies  in  these 
parts,  nor  yet  timorous,"  continued  Lily.  "We 
can  walk  about  without  being  afraid  of  ghosts, 
robbers,  wild  bulls,  young  men,  or  gipsies. 
Come  the  field-path,  Grace.  I  will  go  as  far 
as  tlic  big  oak  with  him,  and  then  I  shall  turn 
back,  and  I  shall  come  in  by  the  stile  opposite 
the  church  gate,  and  through  the  garden.  So 
you  can't  miss  me." 

"I  dare  say  he'll  come  back  with  yon,"  said 
Grace. 

"  No,  he  won't.  lie  will  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He'll  have  to  go  on  and  open  Lady 
Julia's  bottle  of  port-wine  for  his  own  drink- 
ing." 

All  tliis  was  very  good  on  Lily's  part,  and  very 
good  also  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Dale ;  and  John 
was  of  course  very  much  obliged  to  them.  But 
there  was  a  lack  of  romance  in  it  all  which  did 
not  seem  to  him  to  argue  well  as  to  his  success. 
He  did  not  think  much  about  it,  but  he  felt  that 
Lily  would  not  have  been  so  ready  to  arrange 
their  walk  had  she  intended  to  yield  to  his  en- 
treaty. No  doubt  in  these  latter  days  plain  good 
sense  had  become  the  prevailing  mark  of  her  char- 
acter— perhaps,  as  Johnny  thought,  a  little  too 
strongly  prevailing ;  but  even  with  all  her  plain 
good  sense  anddetermination  to  dispense  with  the 
absurdities  of  romance  in  the  aflfairs  of  her  life, 
she  would  not  have  proposed  herself  as  his  com- 
panion for  a  walk  across  the  fields  merely  that 
she  miglit  have  an  opportunity  of  accei)ting  his 
hand.  lie  did  not  say  all  this  to  himself,  but 
lu'  instinctively  felt  that  it  was  so.  And  he  felt 
also  that  it  should  have  been  his  duty  to  arrange 
the  walk,  or  the  proper  oi>portunity  for  the  scene 
that  was  to  come.  She  had  done  it  instead — 
she  and  her  mother  between  them — thereby  for- 
cing upon  him  a  painful  conviction  that  he  lam- 
self  had  not  been  equal  to  the  occasion.     "I 


always  make  a  mull  of  it,"  he  s.iid  to  himself, 
when  tlie  girls  went  up  to  get  their  hats. 

They  went  down  together  through  the  gar- 
den, and  parted  where  tiie  paths  led  away,  one 
to  the  Great  House  and  the  other  toward  the 
church.  "I'll  certainly  come  and  call  upon 
the  squire  before  I  go  back  to  London,"  said 
Johnny. 

"We'll  tell  him  so,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  "He 
would  be  sure  to  hear  that  you  had  been  with 
us,  even  if  we  said  nothing  about  it." 

"Of  course  he  would,"  said  Lily  ;  "  Hopkins 
has  seen  him."  Then  they  separated,  and  Lily 
and  John  Eames  were  togetlicr. 

Hardly  a  word  was  said,  perhaps  not  a  word, 
till  they  had  crossed  the  road  and  got  into  the  field 
opposite  to  the  churcli.  And  in  this  first  field 
there  was  more  than  one  path,  and  the  cliildrcn 
of  the  village  were  often  there,  and  it  had  about 
it  something  of  a  public  nature.  John  Eames 
felt  that  it  was  by  no  means  a  fitting  field  to  say 
that  which  he  had  to  say.  In  crossing  it,  there- 
fore, he  merely  remarked  that  the  day  was  very 
fine  for  walking.  Then  he  added  one  special 
word,  "  And  it  is  so  good  of  you,  Lily,  to  come 
with  me." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  come  with  you.  I  would 
do  more  than  that,  John,  to  show  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you."  Then  they  had  come  to  the 
second  little  gate,  and  beyond  that  tlie  fields 
were  really  fields,  and  there  were  stiles  instead 
of  wicket-gates,  and  the  business  of  the  day  must 
be  begun. 

"Lily,  whenever  I  come  here  you  say  you 
are  glad  to  see  me." 

"  And  so  I  am — very  glad.  Only  you  would 
take  it  as  meaning  what  it  does  not  mean,  I 
would  tell  you,  that  of  all  of  my  friends  living 
away  from  the  reach  of  my  daily  life,  you  are 
tlie  one  whose  coming  is  ever  the  most  j)leasant 
to  me." 

"Oh,  Lily!" 

"It  was,  I  think,  only  yesterday  that  I  was 
telling  Grace  that  you  arc  more  like  a  brother 
to  me  than  any  one  else.  I  wish  it  might  be 
so.  I  wish  we  might  swear  to  be  brother  and 
sister.  I'd  do  more  for  you  then  than  walk 
aci'oss  the  fields  witii  you  to  Guestwick  Cottage. 
Your  jn-osperity  would  then  be  the  thing  in  tlie 
world  for  which  I  should  be  most  anxious.  And 
if  you  should  many — " 

"It  can  never  be  like  that  between  us,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  Can  it  not?  I  think  it  cnn.  Perhaps  not 
this  year,  or  next  year;  perhaps  not  in  the  next 
five  years.  But  I  make  myself  happy  witli 
thinking  that  it  may  be  so  some  day.  I  shall 
wait  for  it  patiently,  very  patiently,  even  though 
you  should  rebuff  me  again  and  again — as  you 
have  done  now." 

"I  have  not  rebuffed  you." 

"Not  maliciously,  or  injuriously,  or  offens- 
ively. I  will  bo  very  ])atient,  and  take  little 
rebuffs  without  complaining.  Tiiis  is  the  worst 
stile  of  all.  When  Grace  and  I  are  here  to- 
gether we  can  never  manage  it  without  tearing 


154 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


LILY   WISIIF.S   TIIAX  TUEY   .MKillT   BWEAH  TO   UK  UUOTUEE  AM>  SISTICK. 


ouvsclvcs  all  to  pieces.  It  is  much  nicer  to 
have  you  to  help  me." 

"Let  me  help  you  always," he  said,  keeping 
her  hands  in  his  after  he  had  aided  her  to  jump 
from  the  stile  to  the  ground. 

"Yes,  as  my  brother." 

"  That  is  nonsense,  Lily." 

"  Is  it  nonsense  ?     Nonsense  is  a  hard  word." 

"  It  is  nonsense  as  coming  from  you  to  me. 
Lily,  I  sometimes  think  that  I  am  persecuting 
you,  writing  to  you,  coming  after  you,  as  I  am 


doing  now — telling  the  same  whining  story- 
asking,  asking,  and  asking  for  that  whicli  you 
say  you  will  never  give  me.  And  then  I  feel 
ashamed  of  myself,  and  swear  that  I  will  do  it 
no  more." 

"Do  not  be  ashamed  of  yourself;    but  yet 
do  it  no  more." 

■  "  And  then,"  he  continued,  without  minding 
her  words,  "at  other  times  I  feel  that  it  must 
be  my  own  fault;  that  if  I  only  persevered 
with  sufficient  energy  I  must  be  successful.     At 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


such  times  I  swear  that  I  will  never  give  it 
up." 

"  Oh,  John,  if  you  could  only  know  how  little 
wortliy  of  such  pursuit  it  is." 

"Leave  me  to  judge  of  tliat,  dear.  When  a 
man  has  taken  a  month,  or  perhaps  only  a  week, 
or  perhaps  not  more  than  half  an  hour,  to  make 
up  his  mind,  it  may  be  very  well  to  tell  him  that 
he  doesn't  know  what  he  is  about.  I've  been  in 
the  office  now  for  over  seven  years,  and  the  first 
day  I  went  I  put  an  oath  into  a  book  that  I 
would  come  back  and  get  you  for  my  wife  when 
I  had  got  enough  to  live  upon." 

"Did  you,  John  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  can  show  it  you.  I  used  to  come 
and  hover  about  the  place  in  the  old  days,  be- 
fore I  went  to  London,  when  I  was  such  a  fool 
that  I  couldn't  speak  to  you  if  I  met  you.  I 
am  speaking  of  a  time  long  before — before  that 
man  came  down  here." 

"Do  not  speak  of  him,  Johnny." 

"  I  must  speak  of  him.  A  man  isn't  to  hold 
his  tongue  when  every  thing  he  has  in  the  world 
is  at  stake.  I  suppose  he  loved  you  after  a 
fashion  once." 

"Pray,  pray  do  not  speak  ill  of  him." 

"I  am  not  going  to  abuse  him.  You  can 
judge  of  him  by  his  deeds.  I  can  not  say  any 
thing  worse  of  him  than  what  they  say.  I  sup- 
pose he  loved  you  ;  but  lie  certainly  did  not  love 
you  as  I  have  done.  I  have  at  any  rate  been 
true  to  you.  Yes,  Lily,  I  liave  been  true  to  j'ou. 
I  am  true  to  you.  He  did  not  know  what  he 
was  about.  I  do.  I  am  justified  in  saying 
that  I  do.  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife.  It  is  no 
use  your  talking  about  it  as  though  I  only  half 
wanted  it." 

"I  did  not  say  that." 

"Is  not  a  man  to  have  any  reward?  Of 
course  if  you  had  married  him  there  would 
have  been  an  end  of  it.  lie  had  come  in  be- 
tween me  and  my  happiness,  and  I  must  have 
j  borne  it,  as  other  men  bear  such  sorrows.  But 
I  you  have  not  married  him  ;  and,  of  course,  I 
can  not  but  feel  that  I  may  yet  have  a  chance. 
I  Lily,  answer  me  this.     Do  you  believe  that  I 


lo 


ve    you  i 


But    she    did   not   answer    him. 


"You  can  at  any  rate  tell  me  tliat.     Do  you 

think  that  I  am  in  earnest  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  in  earnest." 

"  And  do  you  believe  that  I  love  you  with  all 

? 


"Oh,  John!" 
[       "But  do  you?" 
I      "  I  think  you  love  me." 

"  Think !  what  am  I  to  say  or  to  do  to  make 

you  understand  that  my  only  idea  of  happiness 

j  is  the  idea  that  sooner  or  later  I  may  get  you 

I  to  be  my  wife  ?     Lily,  will  you  say  that  it  shall  j 

:be   so?     Speak,  Lily.     There  is  no  one  that  j 

jwill  not  be  glad.     Your  uncle  will  consent — | 

I  has  consented.     Your  mother  wishes  it.     Bell  j 

■wishes  it.     My  mother  wishes  it.     Lady  Julia  \ 

Bwishes  it.     Y''ou  would   be  doing  what  every 

Ibody  aliout  you  wants  you  to  do.     And  why 

[should  you  not  do  it?     It  isn't  that  you  dislike 


me.  You  wouldn't  talk  about  being  my  sister 
if  you  had  not  some  sort  of  regard  for  me." 

"  I  have  a  regard  for  you." 

"  Then  why  will  you  not  be  my  wife?  0!i, 
Lily,  say  the  word  now,  here,  at  once.  Say  the 
word,  and  you'll  make  me  the  happiest  fellow 
in  all  England."  As  he  spoke  he  took  her  by 
both  arms,  and  held  her  fast.  She  did  not  strug- 
gle to  get  away  from  him,  but  stood  quite  still, 
looking  into  his  face,  while  the  first  sparkle 
of  a  salt  tear  formed  itself  in  each  eye.  "  Lily, 
one  little  word  will  do  it — half  a  word,  a 
nod,  a  smile.  Just  touch  my  arm  with  your 
hand  and  I  will  take  it  for  a  yes."  I  think 
that  she  almost  tried  to  touch  him ;  that  the 
word  was  in  her  throat,  and  that  she  almost 
strove  to  speak  it.  But  there  was  no  syllable 
spoken,  and  her  fingers  did  not  loose  themselves 
to  fall  upon  his  sleeve.  "Lily,  Lily,  what  can 
I  say  to  you  ?" 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  whispered — but  the 
whisper  was  so  hoarse  that  he  hardly  recognized 
the  voice. 

"And  why  can  you  not?  "What  is  there  to 
hinder  you?  There  is  nothing  to  hinder  you, 
Lily." 

"Yes,  John  ;  there  is  that  which  must  hinder 
me." 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  You  arc  so  good  and  so  true, 
and  so  excellent — such  a  dear,  dear,  dear  friend, 
that  I  will  tell  you  every  thing,  so  that  you  may 
read  my  heart.  I  will  tell  you  as  I  tell  mamma 
— you  and  her  and  no  one  else — for  you  are  the 
choice  friend  of  my  heart.  I  can  not  be  your 
wife  because  of  the  love  I  bear  for  another  man." 

"And  that  man  is  he — he  who  came  here?'' 

"Of  course  it  is  he.  I  think,  Johnny,  j-ou 
and  I  are  alike  in  this,  that  when  we  have  loved 
we  can  not  bring  oui'selvcs  to  change.  You  will 
not  change,  though  it  would  be  so  much  better 
you  should  do  so." 

"No  ;  I  will  never  change." 

"  Nor  can  I.  When  I  sleep  I  dream  of  him. 
When  I  am  alone  I  can  not  banish  him  from 
my  thoughts.  I  can  not  define  what  it  is  to  love 
him.  I  want  nothing  from  him — nothing,  no- 
thing. But  I  move  about  tlnough  my  little 
■world  thinking  of  him,  and  I  shall  do  so  to  the 
end.  I  used  to  feel  proud  of  my  love,  though 
it  made  me  so  wretched  that  I  thought  it  would 
kill  me.  I  am  not  proud  of  it  any  longer.  It 
is  a  foolish,  poor-spirited  weakness — as  though 
my  heart  had  been  only  half  formed  in  the  mak- 
ing. Do  you  be  stronger,  John.  A  man  should 
be  stronger  than  a  woman." 

"  I  have  none  of  that  sort  of  strength." 

"  Nor  have  I.  What  can  we  do  but  pity  each 
other,  and  swear  that  we  will  be  friends — dear 
friends  ?  There  is  the  oak-tree  and  I  have  got 
to  turn  back.  AVe  have  said  every  thing  that 
we  can  say — unless  you  will  tell  me  that  you  will 
be  my  brother." 

"No;  I  will  not  tell  you  that." 

"  Good-by,  then,  Johnny." 

He   paused,  holding   her  by  the  hand  and 


156 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


thinkinfj  of  another  question  wliicli  he  longed 
to  i)ut  to  lier — considering  whether  lie  would  ask 
her  tliiit  question  or  not.  lie  hardly  know 
wliether  he  were  entitled  to  ask  it — whether  or 
no  the  askinj^  of  it  would  he  ungenerous.  She 
had  said  that  slie  would  tell  him  every  thing — 
as  she  had  told  every  thing  to  her  mother. 
"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  right  to  ex- 
])cct  to  know  any  thing  of  your  future  inten- 
tions ?" 

'•Yon  may  know  them  all — as  far  as  I  know 
tlicm  myself.  I  have  said  that  you  should  read 
my  heart." 

"If  this  man,  whose  name  I  can  not  bear  to 
mention,  should  come  again — " 

•'If  he  were  to  come  again  ho  would  come  in 
vain,  John."  She  did  not  say  that  he  had  come 
again.  She  could  tell  her  own  secret,  but  not 
that  of  anotlier  person. 

"You  would  not  marry  him  now  that  he  is 
free?" 

She  stood  and  thought  a  while  before  she  an- 
swered him.  "  No,  I  should  not  ma^Ty  him  now. 
I  think  not."  Then  she  jiaused  again.  "Nay, 
I  am  sure  I  would  not.  After  what  has  passed 
I  could  not  trust  myself  to  do  it.  There  is  my 
hand  on  it.     I  will  not." 

"No,  Lily,  I  do  not  want  that." 

"  But  I  insist.  I  will  not  marry  Mr.  Crosbie. 
But  you  must  not  misunderstand  me,  John. 
Tiiere — all  that  is  over  for  me  now.  All  those 
dreams  about  love,  and  marriage,  and  of  a  house 
of  my  own,  and  children — and  a  cross  husband, 
and  a  wedding-ring  growing  always  tighter  as  I 
grow  fatter  and  older.  I  have  dreamed  of  such 
things  as  other  girls  do — more  perhaps  than  oth- 
er girls,  more  than  I  should  have  done.  And 
now  I  accept  the  thing  as  finished.  You  wrote 
something  in  your  book,  you  dear  John — some- 
thing that  could  not  be  made  to  come  true. 
Dear  John,  I  wish  for  your  sake  it  was  other- 
wise. I  will  go  home  and  I  will  write  in  my 
book,  this  very  day,  Lilian  Dale,  Old  Maid. 
If  ever  I  make  that  false,  do  you  come  and  ask 
me  for  the  page." 

"Let  it  remain  there  till  I  am  allowed  to  tear 
it  out." 

"I  will  write  it,  and  it  shall  never  be  torn 
out.  You  I  can  not  marry.  Him  I  will  not 
marry.  You  may  believe  me,  Johnny,  when  I 
say  there  can  never  be  a  third." 

"  And  is  that  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  to  be  the  end  of  it.  Not  the 
end  of  our  friendshi]).     Old  maids  have  friends." 

"  It  shall  not  be  the  ei\d  of  it.  There  shall  be 
no  end  of  it  with  me." 

"  But,  John — " 

"Do  not  sujtpose  that  I  will  trouble  you 
again — at  any  rate  not  for  a  while.  In  five 
years'  time,  perhaps — " 

"Now,  Johnny,  you  are  laughing  at  me. 
And  of  course  it  is  the  best  way.  If  there  is 
not  Grace,  and  she  has  caught  me  before  I 
have  turned  back.  Good-by,  dear,  dear  John  ! 
God  bless  you  I  I  think  you  tlic  finest  fellow 
there  is  in  the  world.     I  do,  and  so  does  mam- 


ma. Remember  always  that  there  is  a  temple 
at  Allington  in  wliich  your  worship  is  never  for- 
gotten." Then  she  jjresscd  his  hand,  and  turned 
away  from  him  to  meet  Grace  Crawley.  John 
did  not  stop  to  speak  a  word  to  his  cousin,  but 
])ursucd  his  way  alone. 

"That  cousin  of  yours,"  said  Lily,  "is  sim- 
l)ly  the  dearest,  warmest-hearted,  finest  creat- 
ftvc  that  ever  was  seen  in  the  sliape  of  a  man." 

"  Have  you  told  him  that  you  think  him  so?" 
said  Grace. 

"Indeed  I  have,"  said  Lily. 

"But  have  you  told  this  finest,  warmest, 
dearest  creature  tiiat  he  shall  be  rewarded  with 
the  j)rize  he  covets'?" 

"No,  Grace,  I  have  told  him  nothing  of  the 
kind.  I  think  he  understands  it  all  now.  If 
he  does  not,  it  is  not  for  the  want  of  my  telling 
him.  r  don't  supjiose  any  lady  was  ever  more 
open-spoken  to  a  gentleman  than  I  ha\e  been  to 
him." 

"And  why  have  you  sent  him  away  disap- 
pointed ?     You  know  you  love  him." 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  said  Lily,  "you  allow 
yourself,  for  the  sake  of  your  argument,  to  use 
a  word  in  a  double  sense,  and  you  attempt  to 
confound  me  by  doing  so.  But  I  am  a  great 
deal  too  clever  for  you,  and  have  thought  too 
much  about  it  to  be  taken  in  in  that  way.  I 
certainly  Jove  your  cousin  John ;  and  50  I  do 
love  Mr.  Boyce,  the  vicar." 

"  You  love  Johnny  much  better  than  you  do 
Mr.  Boyce." 

"  True  ;  very  much  better ;  but  it  is  tlie  same 
sort  of  love.  However,  it  is  a  great  deal  too 
deep  for  you  to  understand.  You're  too  young, 
and  I  sha'n't  try  to  explain  it.  But  the  long 
and  the  short  of  it  is — I  am  not  going  to  marry 
your  cousin." 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  said  Grace,  "with  all 
my  heart." 

John  Eames  as  he  returned  to  the  cottage 
was  by  no  means  able  to  fall  back  upon  those 
resolutions  as  to  his  future  life  which  he  had 
formed  for  himself  and  communicated  to  his 
friend  Dalrymple,  and  which  he  had  intended 
to  bring  at  once  into  force  in  the  event  of  his 
being  again  rejected  by  Lily  Dale.  "  I  will 
cleanse  my  mind  of  it  altogether,"  he  had  said, 
"and  though  I  may  not  forget  her,  I  will  live 
as  though  she  were  forgotten.  If  she  declines 
my  proposal  again,  I  will  accept  her  word  as 
final.  I  will  not  go  about  the  world  any  lon- 
ger as  a  stricken  deer— to  be  pitied  or  else  bul- 
lied by  the  rest  of  the  herd."  On  his  way  down 
to  Guestwick  he  had  sworn  twenty  times  that  it 
should  be  so.  He  would  make  one  more  effort, 
and  then  he  would  give  it  up.  But  now,  after 
fhis  interview  with  Lily,  he  was  as  little  disposed 
(to  give  it  up  as  ever. 

He  sat  upon  a  gate  in  a  paddock  through 
whicii  there  was  a  back  entrance  into  Lady  Ju- 
lia's garden,  and  tliere  swore  a  thousand  oaths 
that  he  would  never  give  her  up.  He  was,  at 
any  rate,  sure  that  she  would  never  become  the 
wife  of  any  one  else.     He  was  equally  sure  that 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


157 


]ie  would  never  become  tlic  husband  of  any  oth- 
er wife.  He  could  trust  her.  Yes;  he  was 
sure  of  that.  But  could  he  trust  himself?  Com- 
muning with  himself,  he  told  himself  that  after 
all  he  was  but  a  poor  creature.  Circumstances 
had  been  very  good  to  him,  but  he  had  done 
nothing  for  himself.  He  was  vain,  and  fool- 
ish, and  unsteady.  So  lie  told  himself  while 
sitting  upon  the  gate.  But  he  had,  at  any  rate, 
been  constant  to  Lily,  and  constant  he  would 
remain. 

Ho  would  never  more  mention  her  name 
to  any  one — unless  it  were  to  Lady  Julia  to- 
night. To  Dalrym]ile  he  would  not  open  his 
mouth  about  her,  but  would  plainly  ask  his 
friend  to  be  silent  on  that  subject  if  her  name 
should  be  mentioned  by  him.  But  morning  and 
evening  he  would  pray  for  her,  and  in  liis 
prayers  he  would  always  think  of  her  as  his 
wife.  He  would  never  speak  to  another  girl 
without  remembering  that  he  was  bound  to  Lily. 
He  would  go  nowhere  into  society  without  re- 
calling to  mind  the  fact  that  he  was  bound  by 
the  chains  of  a  solemn  engagement.  If  he 
knew  himself  he  would  be  constant  to  Lily. 

And  then  he  considered  in  what  manner  it 
would  be  best  and  most  becoming  that  he  should 
still  ]n-osccute  his  endeavor  and  repeat  his  offer. 
He  thought  that  he  would  write  to  her  every 
3'ear,  on  the  same  day  of  the  year,  year  after 
year,  it  might  be  for  the  next  twenty  years. 
And  his  letters  should  be  very  simple.  Sitting 
there  on  the  gate  he  planned  the  wording  of  his 
letters — of  his  first  letter,  and  of  his  second,  and 
of  his  third.  They  should  be  very  like  to  each 
other — should  hardly  be  more  than  a  repetition 
of  the  same  words.  "If  now  you  are  ready  for 
me,  then,  Lily,  am  I,  as  ever,  still  ready  for 
you."  And  then  '"if  now"  again,  and  again 
"if  now — and  still  if  now."  When  his  hair 
should  be  gray,  and  the  wrinkles  on  his  cheeks 
— ay,  though  they  should  be  on  hers,  he  would 
still  continue  to  tell  her  from  year  to  year  that 
lie  was  ready  to  take  her.  Surely  some  day 
that  "  if  now"  would  prevail.  And  should  it 
never  prevail,  the  merit  of  his  constancy  should 
be  its  own  reward. 

Such  letters  as  those  she  would  surely  keep. 
Then  he  looked  forward,  down  into  the  valley 
of  coming  years,  and  fancied  her  as  she  might 
sit  reading  them  in  the  twilight  of  some  long 
evening — letters  which  had  been  written  all  in 
vain.  He  thought  that  he  could  look  forward 
with  some  satisfaction  toward  the  close  of  his 
own  career,  in  having  been  the  hero  of  such  a 
.love-story.  At  any  rate,  if  such  a  story  were 
to  be  his  story,  the  melancholy  attached  to  it 
should  arise  from  no  fault  of  his  own.  He 
would  still  press  her  to  be  his  wife.  And  then, 
as  he  remembered  that  he  was  only  twenty- 
seven  and  that  she  was  twenty-four,  he  began 
to  marvel  at  the  feeling  of  gray  old  age  which 
had  come  upon  him,  and  tried  to  make  himself 
believe  that  he  would  have  her  yet  before  the 
i   bloom  was  off  her  check. 

He  went  into  the  cottage  and  made  his  way 


at  once  into  the  room  in  whicli  Lady  Julia  was 
sitting.  She  did  not  speak  at  hrst,  but  looked 
anxiously  into  his  face.  And  he  did  not  speak, 
but  turned  to  a  table  near  the  window  and  took 
up  a  book,  though  the  room,  was  too  dark  for 
him  to  see  to  read  the  words.  "John,"  at  last 
said  Lady  Julia. 

"Well,  my  lady?" 

"Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me,  John?" 

"Nothing  on  earth — except  the  same  old 
story,  which  has  now  become  a  matter  of  course." 

"  But,  John,  will  you  not  tell  me  what  she 
has  said  ?" 

"Lady  Julia,  she  has  said  no;  simply  no. 
It  is  a  very  easy  word  to  say,  and  she  has  said 
it  so  often  that  it  seems  to  come  from  her  quite 
naturally."  Then  he  got  a  candle  and  sat 
down  over  the  fire  with  a  volume  of  a  novel. 
It  was  not  yet  past  five,  and  Lady  Julia  did  not 
go  up  stairs  to  dress  till  six,  and  therefore  there 
was  an  hour  during  which  they  ^vere  together. 
John  had  at  first  been  rather  grand  to  his  old 
friend,  and  very  uncommunicative.  But  before 
the  dressing-bell  had  rung  he  had  been  coaxed 
into  a  confidential  strain  and  had  told  every 
thing.  "  I  suppose  it  is  wrong  and  selfish,"  he 
said.  "I  suppose  I  am  a  dog  in  a  manger. 
But  I  do  own  that  there  is  a  consolation  to  me 
in  the  assurance  that  she  will  never  be  the  wife 
of  that  scoundrel." 

"I  could  never  forgive  her  if  she  were  to 
marry  him  now,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"  I  could  never  forgive  him.  But  she  has 
said  that  she  will  not,  and  I  know  that  she  will 
not  forswear  herself.  I  shall  go  on  with  it, 
Lady  Julia.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  that. 
I  suppose  it  will  never  come  to  any  thing,  but  I 
shall  stick  to  it.  I  can  live  an  old  bachelor  as 
well  as  another  man.  At  any  rate  I  shall  stick 
to  it."  Then  the  good,  silly  old  woman  com- 
forted him  and  applauded  him  as  though  he 
were  a  hero  among  men,  and  did  reward  him, 
as  Lily  had  predicted,  by  one  of  those  now  rare 
bottles  of  superexcellent  port  which  had  come 
to  her  from  her  brother's  cellar. 

John  Eames  staid  out  his  time  at  the  cottage, 
and  went  over  more  than  once  again  to  Alling- 
ton,  and  called  on  tlic  squire,  on  one  occasion 
dining  with  him  and  meeting  the  three  ladi,es 
from  the  Small  House ;  and  he  walked  with 
the  girls,  comporting  himself  like  any  ordinary 
man.  But  lie  was  not  again  alone  with  Lily 
Dale,  nor  did  he  learn  whether  she  had  in  truth 
written  those  two  words  in  her  book.  But  the 
reader  may  know  that  she  did  write  them  there 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the  prom- 
ise was  made.      "Lilian  Dale — Old  Maid." 

And  when  John's  holiday  was  over  he  re- 
turned to  his  duties  at  the  elbow  of  Sir  Kafiio 
Buftle. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


'*  'Mi; 


CHAPrLR  XXX VL 

GKACK    CKAAVLET   RETCKXS    HOME. 

Ar.oi'T  this  time  Grace  Crawley  received  two 
letters,  the  first  of  them  reaching  lier  wliile  John 
Eames  was  still  at  the  cottage,  and  the  other 
immediately  after  his  return  to  London.  They 
hotli  help  to  tell  our  story,  and  our  reader  shall," 
tliercfore,  read  them  if  he  so  please — or  rather, 
lie  shall  read  the  first  and  as  much  of  the  second 
as  is  necessary  for  him.  Grace's  answer  to  the 
first  letter  Kc  shall  see  also.  Iler  answer  to  the 
second  will  he  told  in  a  very  few  words.  The 
first  was  from  Major  Grantly,  and  the  task  of 
answering  that  was  hy  no  means  easy  to  Grace. 

"  C08BT  Lodge,  —  February,  ISfi-. 

"Dearest  Grace, — I  told  you  when  I  part- 
ed from  you  that  I  should  write  to  you,  and  I 
think  it  hest  to  do  so  at  once,  in  order  that  yon 
may  fully  understand  me.  Spoken  words  are 
soon  forgotten" — "I  shall  never  forget  his 
words,"  Grace  said  to  herself  as  she  read  this — 
".and  are  not  always  as  plain  as  they  might  be. 
Dear  Grace,  I  sujjpose  I  ought  not  to  say  so, 
but  I  fancied  wlien  I  parted  from  you  at  Ailing- 
ton  that  I  had  succeeded  in  making  myself  dear 
to  you.  I  believe  you  to  be  so  true  in  spirit 
that  you  were  unable  to  conceal  from  me  the 
fact  tliat  you  love  me.  I  shall  believe  that  this 
is  so  till  I  am  deliberately  and  solemnly  assured 
by  yourself  that  it  is  not  so — and  I  conjure  you 
to  think  what  is  due  both  to  yourself  and  to  my- 
self, before  you  allow  yourself  to  think  of  mak- 
ing such  an  assurance  unless  it  be  strictly  true. 

"I  have  already  told  my  own  friends  that  I 
have  asked  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  tell  you  this 
in  order  that  you  may  know  how  little  cftect 
^■our  answer  to  mc  has  had  toward  inducing  me 
to  give  you  up.  "What  you  said  about  your  fa- 
ther and  your  family  has  no  weight  with  nie, 


and  ought  ultimately  to  have  none  with  you. 
This  business  of  your  father's  is  a  great  misfor- 
tune— so  great  that,  probably,  had  we  not  known 
each  other  beft)re  it  happened,  it  might  have  pre- 
vented our  becoming  intimate  when  we  chanced 
to  meet.  But  we  had  met  before  it  hajipened, 
and  before  it  happened  I  had  determined  to  ask 
you  to  be  my  wife.  What  should  I  have  to 
think  of  myself  if  I  allowed  my  heart  to  be  al- 
tered by  such  a  cause  as  that? 

"  I  have  only  further  to  say  that  I  love  you 
better  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  tliat  it  is 
my  best  hojje  that  you  will  be  my  wife.  I  will 
not  press  you  till  this  affair  of  your  father's  has 
been  settled ;  but  when  that  is  over  I  shall  look 
for  my  reward  without  reference  to  its  result. 
Not  that  I  doubt  the  result  if  there  be  any  thing 
like  justice  in  England  ;  but  that  your  debt  to 
me,  if  you  owe  mc  any  debt,  will  be  altogether 
irrespective  of  that.  If,  as  I  suppose,  you  will 
remain  at  Allington  for  some  time  longer,  I 
shall  not  see  you  till  after  the  trial  is  over.  As 
soon  as  that  is  done  I  will  come  to  you  wher- 
ever you  are.  In  tlic  mean  time  I  sliall  look 
for  an  answer  to  this  :  and  if  it  be  true  that  vou 
love  me,  dear,  dear  Grace,  pray  have  the  cour- 
age to  tell  me  so. 

"  Most  afiectionately  your  own, 

"Henry  Grantly." 

When  the  letter  was  given  to  Grace  across 
the  breakfast-table  both  Mrs.  Dale  and  Lily  sus- 
pected that  it  came  from  Major  Grantly,  but 
not  a  word  was  spoken  about  it.  When  Grace 
with  hesitating  hand  broke  the  envelope  neither 
of  her  friends  looked  at  her.  Lily  had  a  letter 
of  her  own,  and  Mrs.  Dale  opened  the  newspa- 
per. But  still  it  was  impossible  not  to  perceive 
that  her  face  became  red  with  blushes,  and  then 
they  knew  that  the  letter  must  be  from  Major 
Grantly.  Grace  herself  could  riot  read  it,  though 
her  eye  ran  down  over  the  two  pages,  catching 
a  word  here  and  a  word  there.  She  had  looked 
at  the  name  at  once,  and  had  seen  the  manner  of 
his  signature.  "  Most  affectionately  your  own !" 
What  was  she  to  say  to  him  ?  Twice,  thrice, 
as  she  sat  at  the  breakfost-table  she  turned  the 
page  of  the  letter,  and  at  each  turning  she  read 
the  signature.  And  she  read  the  beginning, 
"Dearest  Grace."  More  than  that  she  did  not 
really  read  till  she  had  got  the  letter  away  with 
her  into  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room. 

Not  a  word  was  said  about  the  letter  at  bre.ik- 
fast.  Poor  Grace  went  on  eating  or  ])retending 
to  eat,  but  could  not  bring  herself  to  utter  a 
word.  IMrs.  Dale  and  Lily  spoke  of  various 
matters  which  were  quite  indifferent  to  them; 
but  even  with  them  the  conversation  was  so  dif- 
ficult that  Grace  felt  it  to  be  forced,  and  was 
conscious  that  they  were  thinking  about  her  and 
her  lover.  As  soon  as  she  could  make  an  excuse 
she  left  the  room,  and  hurrying  up  stairs  took 
the  letter  from  her  pocket  and  read  it  in  earnest. 
'  "That  Avas  from  Major  Grantly,  mamma," 
said  Lily. 

"  I  dare  say  it  was,  my  dear." 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


159 


"And  what  had  wc  better  do;  or  \v!iat  had 
we  better  say  ?" 

"  Nothing— I  should  say.  Let  him  fight  his 
own  battle.  If  we  interfere  we  may  probably 
only  make  her  more  stubborn  in  clinging  to  her 
old  idea." 

"  I  think  she  will  cling  to  it." 

"For  a  time  she  will,  I  dare  say.  And  it 
will  be  best  that  she  should.  He  himself  will 
respect  her  for  it  afterward."  Thus  it  was 
agreed  between  them  that  they  should  say  no- 
thing to  Grace  about  the  letter  unless  Grace 
should  first  speak  to  them. 


Grace  read  her  letter  over  and  over  again. 
It  was  the  first  love-letter  she  had  ever  had — 
the  first  letter  she  had  ever  received  fi-om  any 
man  except  her  father  and  brother — the  first,  al- 
most, that  had  ever  been  written  to  her  by  any 
other  than  her  own  old  special  friends.  The 
words  of  it  were  very  strange  to  her  ear.  He  had 
told  her  when  he  left  her  that  he  would  write  to 
her,  and  therefore  slie  had  looked  forward  to  the 
event  which  had  now  come ;  but  she  had 
thought  that  it  would  be  much  more  distant — 
and  she  had  tried  to  make  herself  believe  that 
when  it  did  come  it  would  be  very  different 


ICO 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


from  tliis  letter  wliicli  she  now  possessed.  "lie 
will  tell  nic  that  he  has  altered  his  mind.  He 
oiiiilit  to  do  so.  It  is  not  proper  that  he  should 
still  think  of  me  when  we  are  in  such  disj,'racc." 
But  now  tlic  letter  had  come,  and  she  acknowl- 
cd<?ed  tiic  truth  of  his  saying  that  written  words 
were  clearer  in  their  cxjjression  than  those  siin- 
jily  sj'oken.  "Not  that  I  could  ever  forget  a 
.syllable  that  he  said."  Yet  as  she  held  the  let- 
ter in  her  hand  slic  felt  that  it  was  a  ]iosses- 
sion.  It  was  a  thing  at  wliich  she  could  look 
in  coming  years,  when  lie  and  she  ini;4ht  be  far 
apart — a  thing  at  wliicli  slie  could  look  with 
])ride  in  remembering  that  he  had  thought  her 
worthy  of  it. 

Neither  on  that  day  nor  on  the  next  did  she 
tliink  of  her  answer,  nor  on  the  third  or  the 
fourth  witli  any  steady  thinking.  She  knew 
that  an  answer  would  liavo  to  ho  written,  and 
slic  felt  tliat  the  sooner  it  was  written  the  easier 
niiglit  be  the  writing ;  but  she  felt  also  that  it 
should  not  be  written  too  quickly.  A  week 
should  first  elapse,  she  thought,  and  therefore  a 
week  was  allowed  to  elapse,  and  then  the  day 
for  writing  her  answer  came.  She  had  spoken 
no  word  about  it  eitlier  to  Mrs.  Dale  or  to  Lily. 
She  had  longed  to  do  so,  but  had  feared.  Even 
thongli  she  slionld  speak  to  Lily  she  could  not 
be  led  by  Lily's  advice.  Her  letter,  whatever 
it  might  be,  must  be  her  own  letter.  She  would 
admit  of  no  dictation.  She  must  say  her  own 
say,  let  her  say  it  ever  so  badly.  As  to  the 
manner  of  saying  it,  Lily's  aid  would  Iinve  been 
invaluable  ;  but  slie  feared  that  slic  could  not 
secure  that  aitl  without  compromising  her  own 
power  of  action — her  own  individuality;  and 
therefore  she  said  no  word  about  the  letter 
eitlicr  to  Lily  or  to  Lily's  mother. 

On  a  certain  morning  she  fixed  herself  at  her 
di2sk  to  write  her  letter.  She  had  known  that 
the  task  would  be  difficult,  but  she  had  little 
known  how  difiicult  it  would  be.  On  that  da}' 
of  her  first  attempt  she  did  not  get  it  written  at 
all.  IIow  was  she  to  begin  ?  He  had  called 
her  "Dearest  Grace  ;"  and  this  mode  of  begin- 
ning seemed  as  easy  as  it  was  sweet.  "  It  is 
very  easy  for  a  gentleman,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  because  he  may  say  just  what  he  pleases." 
She  wrote  the  words  "  Dearest  Henry"  on  a 
scrap  of  jiaper,  and  immediately  tore  it  into 
fragments  as  tliough  she  were  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing Avritten  them.  She  knew  that  she  Avould 
not  dare  to  send  away  a  letter  beginning  with 
such  words.  She  would  not  even  have  dared 
to  let  such  words  in  her  own  handwriting  re- 
main within  the  recesses  of  her  own  little  desk. 
"Dear  I\I;ijor  Grantly,"  she  began  at  length. 
It  seemed  to  her  to  be  very  ugly,  but  after  much 
consideration  she  believed  it  to  be  correct.  On 
the  second  day  the  letter  was  written  as  follows: 

"  Alltngton,  Tlmritdaii. 
"  Mr  DEAK    jMa.jor    Graxtly, — I   do  not 
know  how  I  ought  to  answer  your  kind  letter, 
but  I  nuist  tell  you  that  I  am  very  much  flatter- 
ed by  your  great  goodness  to  me.     I  can  not 


understand  why  you  should  think  so  much  of 
me,  but  I  sup])ose  it  is  because  you  have  felt  for 
all  our  misfortunes.  I  will  not  say  any  thing 
about  what  might  have  happened  if  it  had  not 
been  for  ])apa's  sorrow  and  disgrace  ;  and  as 
far  as  I  can  help  it,  I  will  not  think  of  it;  but 
I  am  sure  that  1  ought  not  to  think  about  loving 
any  one,  that  is,  in  the  way  you  mean,  while  we 
arc  in  such  trouble  at  home.  I  should  not  daro 
to  meet  any  of  your  great  friends,  knowing  that 
I  had  brought  nothing  with  me  but  disgrace. 
And  I  should  feel  that  I  was  doing  an  injury  to 
dear  Edith,  which  would  be  worse  to  nic  than 
any  thing. 

"I'ray  believe  that  I  am  quite  in  earnest 
about  this.  I  know  that  a  gentleman  ought 
not  to  marry  any  girl  to  do  himself  and  his  fam- 
ily an  injury  by  it;  and  I  know  that  if  I  were 
to  make  such  a  marriage  I  should  be  unhappy 
ever  afterward,  even  tliough  I  loved  the  man 
ever  so  dearly,  with  all  my  heart."  These  last 
words  she  had  underscored  at  first,  but  the  do- 
ing so  had  been  the  unconscious  expression  of 
her  own  affection,  and  had  been  done  with  no 
desire  on  her  part  to  convey  that  expression  to 
him.  But  on  reading  the  words  she  discovered 
their  latent  meaning,  and  wrote  it  all  again. 

"Therefure  I  know  that  it  will  bo  best  that 
I  should  wish  you  good-by,  and  I  do  so,  thank- 
ing you  again  and  again  for  your  goodness  to 
me.  Believe  me  to  be, 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 
"Grace  Craavley." 

The  letter  when  it  was  written  was  hateful  to 
her;  but  she  had  tried  her  hand  at  it  again  and 
again,  and  had  found  that  she  could  do  nothing 
better.  There  was  mucli  in  his  letter  that  she 
had  not  attempted  to  answer.  He  had  implored 
her  to  tell  him  whether  or  no  she  did  in  truth 
love  him.  Of  course  she  loved  him.  He  knew 
that  well  enough.  Why  should  she  answer  any 
such  question  ?  There  was  a  way  of  ansv/ering 
it  indeed  which  might  serve  her  turn — or  rather 
serve  his,  of  which  she  was  thinking  more  than 
of  her  own.  She  might  say  that  she  did  not 
love  him.  It  would  be  a  lie,  and  he  would  know 
that  it  would  be  a  lie.  But  still  it;  might  serve 
the  turn.  She  did  not  like  the  idea  of  writing 
such  a  lie  as  that,  but  nevertheless  she  consid- 
ered the  matter.  It  would  be  very  wicked; 
but  still,  if  it  would  serve  the  turn,  might  it  not 
be  well  to  write  it?  But  at  last  she  reflected 
that,  after  all,  the  doing  of  the  thing  Avas  in  her 
own  hands.  She  could  refuse  to  marry  this 
man  without  burdening  her  conscience  with  any 
lie  about  it.  It  only  required  that  she  should 
be  firm.  She  abstained,  therefore,  from  the 
falsehood,  and  left  her  lover's  question  unan-  , 
swered.  So  she  put  up  her  letter  and  directed 
it,  and  carried  it  herself  to  the  village  post- 
office. 

I,  On  the  day  after  this  she  got  the  second  let- 
ter, and  that  she  sliowed  immediately  to  Mrs. 
Dale.  It  was  from  her  mother,  and  was  written 
to  tell  her  that  her  father  was  seriously  ill. 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


161 


"lie  went  up  to  London  to  sec  a  lawyer  about 
this  wcaiy  work  of  the  trial,"  said  ]Mrs.  Crawley. 
"The  fatigue  was  very  great,  and  on  the  next 
day  he  was  so  weak  that  he  could  not  leave  his 
bed.  Dr.  Turner,  who  has  been  very  kind,  says 
that  we  need  not  frighten  ourselves,  but  he 
thinks  it  must  be  some  time  before  he  can  leave 
the  house.  He  has  a  low  fever  on  him,  and 
wants  nourishment.  His  mind  has  wandered 
once  or  twice,  and  he  has  asked  for  you,  and  I 
think  it  will  be  best,  love,  that  you  should  come 
home.  T  know  you  will  not  mind  it  when  I  say- 
that  I  think  he  would  like  to  have  you  here.  Dr. 
Turner  says  that  the  illness  is  chietly  owing  to 
his  not  having  proper  food." 

Of  course  she  would  go  at  once.  "  Dear  Mrs. 
Dale,"  slie  said,  "I  must  go  home.  Can  you 
send  me  to  the  station  ?"  Then  Mrs.  Dale  read 
tlie  letter.  Of  course  they  would  send  her. 
Would  she  go  on  that  day,  or  on  the  next? 
Miglit  it  not  be  better  to  wiite  first,  and  say 
that  she  was  going?  But  Grace  would  go  at 
once.  "  I  know  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  mamma ; 
and  I  know  that  he  is  worse  than  mamma  says." 
Of  course  there  was  no  more  to  be  said,  and  she 
was  dis]iatched  to  the  station.  Before  she  went 
Mrs.  Dale  asked  after  her  purse.  "If  there  is 
any  trouble  about  money — for  your  journey,  or 
any  thing,  you  will  not  scruple  to  come  to  me 
as  to  an  old  friend."  But  Grace  assured  her 
that  there  was  no  trouble  about  money — for  her 
journey.  Tiicn  Lily  took  her  aside  and  pro- 
duced two  clean  new  five-pound  notes.  "  Grace, 
dear,  you  won't  be  ill-natured.  You  know  I 
have  a  little  fortune  of  my  own.  You  know  I 
can  give  tlicm  without  missing  them."  Grace 
threw  herself  into  her  friend's  arms  and  wept, 
but  would  iiave  none  of  her  money.  "Buy  a 
present  from  me  for  your  mother — whom  I  love 
thougli  I  do  not  know  her."  "I  will  give  her/ 
your  love,"  Grace  said,  "but  nothing  else.'' 
And  then  she  went. 


CHAPTER  XXXTII. 

HOOK   COURT. 

Mr.  DoKiis  BRorcnTON  and  Mr.  IMnsselborol 

were  sitting  together  on  a  certain  morning  at 

:  their  office  in  the  City,  discussing  tlie  affairs  of 

!  their  joint  business.     The  City  office  was  a  very 

;poor  place  indeed,  in  comparison  with  the  'fine 

1  house  \\hich  Mr.  Dobbs  occupied  at  the  West 

.  End  ;  but  then  City  offices  are  poor  jilaces,  and 

I  there  are  certain  City  occupations  which  seem 

to  enjoy  the  greater  credit  the  poorer  are  the 

I  material  circumstances  by  which  they  are  sur- 

Irounded.     Turning  out  of 'a  lane  which  turns 

lout  of  Lombard  Street,  there  is  a  desolate,  for- 

jlonv looking,  dark  alley,  which  is  called  Ilook^ 

[Court.     The  entrance  to  this  alley  is  beneath 

'the  first-floor  of  one  of  tlie  houses  in  the  lane, 

and  in  ])assing  under  this  covered  way  the  vis- 

itiir  to  the  jjlace  finds  himself  in  a  small  paved 

s'niare  court,  at  the  two  further  corners  of  which 

there  are  two  open  doors;  for  in  Hook  Court 


there  arc  only  two  houses.  There  is  No.  1 
Hook  Court,  and  No.  2  Hook  Court.  The  en- 
tire premises  indicated  by  No.  1  arc  occupied 
by  a  firm  of  wine  and  spirit  merchants,  in  con- 
nection with  whose  trade  one  side  and  two  an- 
gles of  the  court  are  always  lumbered  with  crates, 
hampers,  and  wooden  cases.  And  nearly  in  the 
middle  of  the  court,  though  somewhat  more  to 
the  wine  merchants'  side  than  to  the  other,  there 
is  always  gaping  open  a  trap-door,  leading  down 
to  vaults  below ;  and  over  the  trap  there  is  a 
great  board  with  a  bright  advertisement  in  very 
large  letters : 

BURTON  AND  BANGLES. 

II I  il  A  L  A  Y  A   AV I  X  E  S, 

£2,::.  Gd.  2Jcr  dozen. 

And  this  notice  is  so  bright  and  so  large,  and 
the  trap-door  is  so  conspicuous  in  the  court, 
that  no  visitor,  even  to  No.  2,  ever  afterward 
can  quite  divest  his  memory  of  those  names, 
Burton  and  Bangles,  Himalaya  wines.  It  may 
therefore  be  acknowledged  that  Burtcn  and 
Bangles  have  achieved  their  object  in  putting 
up  the  notice.  The  house  No.  2,  small  as  it 
seems  to  be,  standing  in  the  jamb  of  a  corner, 
is  divided  among  different  occupiers,  Avhose 
names  are  painted  in  small  letters  upon  the 
very  dirty  posts  of  the  doorway.  Nothing  can 
be  more  remarkable  than  the  contrast  between 
Burton  and  Bangles  and  these  other  city  gen- 
tlemen in  the  method  taken  by  them  in  declar- 
ing their  presence,  to  visitors  in  the  court.  Tiie 
names  of  Dobbs  Brougliton  and  of  A.  Mussel- 
boro — the  Christian  name  of  Mr.  Musselboro 
was  Augustus — were  on  one  of  those  dirty  posts, 
not  joined  together  by  any  visible  "and,"  so  as 
to  declare  boldly  that  they  were  partners ;  but 
in  close  vicinity— showing  at  least  that  the  two 
gentlemen  would  be  found  in  apartments  very 
near  to  each  other.  And  on  the  first-floor  of 
this  house  Dobbs  Brougliton  and  his  friend  did 
occupy  three  rooms — or  rather  two  rooms  and 
a  closet — between  them.  The  larger  and  front 
room  was  tenanted  by  an  old  clerk,  ■^^  ho  sat 
within  a  rail  in  one  corner  of  it.  And  there 
was  a  broad,  short  counter  which  jutted  out 
from  tlie  wall  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  in- 
tended for  the  use  of  such  of  the  public  as  miglit 
come  to  transact  miscellaneous  business  with 
Dobbs  Broughton  or  Augustus  Musselboro.  But 
any  one  accustomed  to  the  look  of  offices  nii-lit 
have  seen  with  half  an  eye  that  very  little  busi- 
ness was  ever  done  on  .that  counter.  Behind 
this  large  room  was  a'smaller  one,  belonging  to 
Dobbs  Broughton,  in  the  furnishing  and  ar- 
rangement of  which  some  regard  had  been  paid 
to  comfort.  The  room  was  carpeted,  and  there 
was  a  sofa  in  it,  though  a  very  old  one,  and  two 
arm-chairs  and  a  mahogany  office-table,  and  a 
cellaret,  which  was  generally  well  su]iplied  with 
wine  which  Dobbs  Broughton  did  not  get  out 
of  the  vaults  of  his  neighbors.  Burton  and  Ban- 
gles. Behind  this  again,  but  Mitli  a  separate 
entrance  from  the  passage,  was  the  closet ;  and 
this  closet  was  specially  devoted  to  the  use  of 


1G2 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


Mr.  Mnssolboro.  Closet  as  it  wns — or  cuji- 
board  as  it  might  almost  have  been  called — it 
contained  a  table  and  two  chairs;  and  it  had  a 
window  of  its  own,  which  oiiencd  out  npon  a 
blank  wall  which  was  distant  from  it  not  above 
four  feet.  As  the  house  to  which  this  wall  be- 
longed was  four  stories  high,  it  would  some- 
times happen  that  Mr.  INIusselboro's  cu])board 
was  rather  dark.  But  lliis  mattered  tlie  less 
as  in  these  days  ]\Ir.  IMussclboro  seldom  used 
it.  IMr.  IMnsselboro,  who  was  very  constant  at 
his  ])laec  of  business — much  more  constant  than 
his  friend,  Dobbs  Bronghton — was  generally  to 
be  found  in  his  friend's  room.  Only  on  some 
special  occasions,  on  which  it  was  thought  ex- 
pedient that  the  commercial  world  should  be 
made  to  understand  that  Mr.  Augustus  INIusscl- 
boro  had  an  individual  existence  of  his  own,  did 
that  gentleman  really  seat  himself  in  the  dark 
closet.  jNIr.  ])obbs  Bronghton,  had  he  been 
asked  wliut  was  his  trade,  would  have  said  that 
he  was  a  stock-broker ;  and  he  would  have  an- 
swered truly,  for  he  was  a  stock-broker.  A  man 
may  b:^  a  stock-broker  though  he  never  sells  any 
stock ;  as  he  may  be  a  barrister  though  he  has 
no  practiee  at  the  bar.  I  do  not  say  that  Mr. 
Broui^Iiton  never  sold  any  stock;  but  the  buy- 
ing and  selling  of  stock  for  other  people  was 
certainly  not  his  cliief  business.  And  had  Mr. 
INIusselboro  been  asked  what  was  his  trade,  he 
would  have  probably  given  an  evasive  answer. 
At  any  rate  in  the  City,  and  among  people  who 
understood  City  matters,  he  would  not  have  said 
that  he  was  a  stock-broker.  Both  Mr.  Brongh- 
ton and  Mr.  Musselboro  bought  and  sold  a  good 
deal,  but  it  was  chiefly  on  account.  The  shares 
wliich  were  bought  and  sold  very  generally  did 
not  pass  from  hand  to  hand  ;  but  the  difference 
in  the  price  of  the  shares  did  do  so.  And  then 
they  had  another  little  business  between  them. 
They  lent  money  on  interest.  And  in  this  busi- 
ness there  was  a  third  partner,  whose  name  did 
not  appear  on  the  dirty  door-post.  That  third 
])artner  was  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  the  mother  of 
Clara  Van  Siever  whom  j\Ir.  Conway  Ualrym- 
])le  intended  to  portray  as  Jael  driving  a  nail 
into  Sisera's  head. 

On  a  certain  morning  iMr.  Bronghton  and 
Mr.  jNIusselboro  were  sitting  togetlier  in  the 
office  which  has  been  described.  They  were 
in  Mr.  Broughton's  room,  and  occupied  each  an 
arm-chair  on  the  different  sides  of  the  fire.  Mr. 
Musselboro  was  sitting  close  to  the  table,  on 
which  a  ledger  was  open  befofc  him,  and  he 
had  a  pen  and  ink  before  him,  as  though  he 
had  been  at  work.  Dobbs  Bronghton  had  a 
small  betting-book  in  his  hand,  and  \\as  seated 
with  his  feet  up  against  the  side  of  the  fire-place. 
Both  men  wore  their  hats,  and  the  aspect  of  the 
room  was  not  the  aspect  of  a  place  of  business. 
They  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes  when 
Bronghton  took  his  cigar-case  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  nibbled  off  the  end  of  a  cigar,  preparatory 
to  lighting  it. 

"  You  had  better  not  smoke  here  this  morn- 
ing, Dobbs,"  said  Mussclbora 


"  Why  shouldn't  I  smoke  in  my  own  room  ?" 

"  Because  she'll  be  here  just  now." 

"  What  do  I  care?  If  you  think  I'm  going 
to  be  afraid  of  Mother  Van  you're  mistaken. 
Let  come  what  may,  I'm  not  going  to  live  un- 
der her  thumb."     So  he  lighted  his  cigar. 

"All  right,"  said  Musselboro,  and  he  took 
uj)  his  ])cn  and  went  to  work  at  his  book. 

"  What  is  she  coming  hero  for  this  morning?" 
asked  Bronghton. 

"To  look  after  her  money.  What  should 
she  come  for?" 

"  She  gets  her  interest.  I  don't  suppose 
there's  better  paid  money  in  the  City." 

"  She  hasn't  got  what  was  coming  to  her  at 
Christmas  yet." 

"And  this  is  February.  What  would  she 
have?  She  had  better  i)nt  her  dirty  money 
into  the  tlu'ce  per  cents.,  if  she's  frightened  at 
having  to  wait  a  week  or  two." 

"  Can  she  have  it  to-day  ?" 

"What,  tlie  whole  of  it?  Of  course  she 
can't.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  She 
can  have  four  hundred  pounds  if  she  wants  it. 
But  seeing  all  she  gets  out  of  the  concern,  she 
has  no  right  to  jn-ess  for  it  in  that  way.     She  is 

the old  usurer  I  ever  came  across  in  my 

life." 

"  Of  course  she  likes  her  money." 

"Likes  her  money!  By  George  she  does; 
her  own  and  any  body  else's  that  she  can  get 
hold  of.  For  a  downright  leech,  recomm.end 
me  always  to  a  woman.  When  a  woman  does 
go  in  for  it,  she  is  much  more  thorough  than 
any  man."  Then  Bronghton  turned  over  the 
little  pages  of  his  book,  and  Musselboro  pon- 
dered over  the  big  pages  of  his  hook,  and  there 
was  silence  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
/  "There's  something  about  nine  hundred  and 
'fifteen  pounds  due  to  her,"  said  Musselboro. 

"I  dare  say  there  is." 

"  It  would  be  a  very  good  thing  to  let  her 
have  it  if  you've  got  it.  The  whole  of  it  this 
morning,  I  mean." 

"  If!  yes,  if  I"  said  Bronghton. 

"  I  know  there's  more  than  that  at  the  bank 

"And  I'm  to  draw  out  every  shilling  that 
there  is !  I'll  see  mother  Van — further  first. 
She  can  have  £500  if  she  likes  it — and  the  rest 
in  a  fortnight.  Or  she  can  have  my  note-of- 
hand  for  it  all  at  fourteen  days." 

"She  won't  like  that  at  all,"  said  Mussel- 
boro. 

"  Then  she  must  lump  it.  I'm  not  going  to 
bother  myself  about  her.  I've  pretty  nearly  as 
much  money  in  it  as  she  has,  and  we're  in  a 
boat  together.  If  she  comes  here  bothering 
you'd  better  tell  her  so." 

"  You'll  sec  her  yourself?" 

"Not  unless  she  comes  within  the  next  ten 
minutes.  I  must  go  down  to  the  court.  I  said 
I'd  be  there  by  twelve.  I've  got  somebody  I 
want  to  see." 

"I'd  stay  if  I  were  you." 

"  Why  shoidd  I  stay  for  her  ?  If  she  thinks 
that  I'm  going  to  make  myself  her  clerk  she's 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


163 


mistaken.  It  may  be  nil  very  well  for  you, 
Mussy,  but  it  won't  do  for  me.  I'm  not  de- 
pendent on  her,  and  I  don't  want  to  marry  her 
daughter." 

"It  will  simply  end  in  her  demanding  to 
have  lier  money  back  again." 

"And  how  will  she  get  it?"  said  Dobbs 
Broiighton.  "I  haven't  a  doubt  in  life  but 
slie'd  take  it  to-morrow  if  she  could  put  her 
hands  upon  it.  And  then,  after  a  bit,  when 
she  began  to  find  that  she  didn't  like  four  per 
cent.,  she'd  bring  it  back  again.  But  nobody 
can  do  business  after  such  a  fasliion  as  that. 
Eor  the  last  three  years  she's  drawn  close  xipon 
two  thousand  a  year  for  less  tlian  eighteen, 
thousand  pounds.  When  a  woman  wants  to  dp' 
that  she  can't  Iiave  her  money  in  her  pocket 
every  IMonday  morning." 

"  But  you've  done  better  than  that  yourself, 
Dobbs." 

"  Of  course  I  have.  And  who  has  made  the 
connection:  and  who  has  done  the  work?  I 
suppose  slie  doesn't  think  that  I'm  to  have  all 
the  sweat  and  that  she  is  to  have  all  the  profit." 
"  If  you  talk  of  work,  Dobbs,  it  is  I  that  have 
done  the  most  of  it."  This  Mr.  Musselboro 
said  in  a  very  serious  voice,  and  with  a  look  of 
much  rei)roach. 

"  And  you've  been  paid  for  what  you've  done. 
Come,  Mussy,  you'd  better  not  turn  against  me. 
You'll  never  get  your  change  out  of  that.  Even 
if  you  marry  the  daughter,  that  won't  give  you 
the  mother's  money.  She'll  stick  to  every 
shilling  of  it  till  she  dies  ;  and  she'd  take  it  with 
her  then  if  she  knew  how."  Having  said  this, 
he  got  up  from  his  chair,  put  his  little  book  into 
his  pocket,  and  walked  out  of  the  oflSce.  He 
pushed  his  way  across  the  court,  which  was 
more  than  ordinarily  -crowded  with  the  imple- 
ments of  Burton  and  Banglcs's  trade,  and  as  he 
passed  under  the  covered  way  he  encountered  at 
tlie  entrance  an  old  woman  getting  out  of  a  cab. 
Tiie  old  woman  was,  of  course,  Mother  Van, 
as  her  partner,  jNIr.  Dobbs  Broughton,  irrever- 
ently called  her.  "  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  how  d'ye 
do?  Let  me  give  you  a  hand.  Fare  from 
South  Kensington  ?  I  always  give  the  fellows 
three  shillings." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  it's  six  miles!" 
And  she  tendered  a  florin  to  the  man. 

"  Can't  take  that,  ma'am,"  said  the  cabman. 
"Can't  take  it!  But  you  must  take  it. 
Broughton,  just  get  a  policeman,  will  you?" 
Dobbs  Broughton  satisfied  the  driver  out  of  his 
own  pocket,  and  the  cab  was  driven  away. 
"What  did  you  give  him?"  said  Mrs.  Van 
'  Siever. 

t      "Just  another  sixpence.     There  never  is  a 
I  policeman  any  where  about  here." 
I      "  It'll  be  out  of  your  own  pocket,  then,"  said 
'  Mrs.  Van.      "But  you're  not  going  away." 
I  ,  "  I  must  be  at  Capel  Court  by  half  past  twelve 
I  — I  must  indeed.     If  it  wasn't  real  business  I'd 
I  stay." 
1      "I  told  Musselboro  I  should  be  here," 

"He's  up  there,  and  he  knows  all  about  the 


business  just  as  well  as  I  do.  When  I  found 
that  I  couldn't  stay  for  you  I  went  through  tlic 
account  with  him,  and  it's  all  settled.  Good- 
morning.  I'll  see  you  at  the  West  End  in  a 
day  or  two."  Then  he  made  his  way  out  into 
Lombard  Street,  and  Mrs.  Van  Siever  jiicked 
her  steps  across  the  yard,  and  mounted  the  stairs, 
and  made  her  way  into  the  room  in  which  IMr. 
Musselboro  was  sitting. 

"Somebody's  been  smoking,  Gus,"  she  said, 
almost  as  soon  as  she  had  entered  the  room. 

"That's  nothing  new  here,"  he  rejjlied,  as  he 
got  up  from  his  chair. 

"There's  no  good  being  done  when  men  sit 
and  smoke  over  their  work.  Is  it  you,  or  he, 
or  both  of  you  ?" 

•  "Well — it  was  Broughton  was  smoking  just 
now.     I  don't  smoke  of  a  morning  myself." 

"What  made  him  get  up  and  run  away  when 
I  came?" 

"How  can  I  tell,  Mrs.  Van  Siever?"  said 
Musselboro,  laughing.  "If  he  did  run  away 
when  you  came  I  suppose  it  was  because  lie 
didn't  want  to  see  you." 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  want  to  see  nie  ? 
Gus,  I  expect  the  truth  from  you.  How  are 
things  going  on  here?"  To  this  question  !Mr. 
Musselboro  made  no  immediate  answer ;  but 
tilted  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  took  his  hat 
oft',  and  put  his  thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of 
his  waistcoat,  and  looked  his  patroness  full  in 
the  face.  "Gus,"  she  said  again,  "I  do  ex- 
pect the  truth  from  you.  How  are  things  go- 
ing on  here  ?" 

"There'd  be  a  good  business — if  he'd  only 
keep  things  together." 

"  But  he's  idle.     Isn't  he  idle  ?" 

"Confoundedly  idle,"  said  Musselboro. 

"And  he  drinks — don't  he  drink  in  tlic  day  ?" 

"Like  the  mischief — some  days.  But  that 
isn't  the  worst  of  it." 

"And  what  is  the  worst  of  it?" 

"Newmarket — that's  the  rock  he's  going  to 
pieces  on." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  he  takes  the  money 
out  of  the  business  for  that?"  And  JMrs.  Van 
Siever's  face,  as  she  asked  the  question,  ex- 
pressed almost  a  tragic  horror.  "If  I  thouglit 
that  I  wouldn't  give  him  an  hour's  mercy." 

"  When  a  man  bets  he  doesn't  well  know 
what  money  he  uses.  I  can't  say  that  he  takes 
money  that  is  not  his  own.  Situated  as  I  am,  I 
don't  know  what  is  his  own  and  what  isn't.  If 
your  money  was  in  my  name  I  could  keep  a 
iiand  on  it — but  as  it  is  not  I  can  do  nothing.  I 
can  see  that  what  is  put  out  is  jjut  out  fairly 
well ;  and  when  I  think  of  it,  Mrs.  Van  Siever, 
it  is  quite  wonderful  that  we've  lost  so  little. 
It  has  been  next  to  nothing.  That  has  been 
my  doing — and  that's  about  all  that  I  can  do." 

"You  must  know  whether  he  has  used  my 
money  for  his  own  purjioses  or  not." 

"If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  has,"  s.iid  IMr. 
Musselboro. 

"  Then  I'll  go  into  it,  and  I'll  find  it  out,  and 
if  it  is  so,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Van  Siever,  I'll 


164 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


sew  him  up."  Huvinp;  uttered  which  terrible 
tlireat,  tlie  old  woniau  drew  a  chair  to  the  table 
and  seated  iierself  I'airly  down,  as  though  siie 
were  determined  to  po  tln-ouph  all  the  books  of 
the  office  before  she  quitted  that  room.  Mrs. 
Van  Sievcr  in  her  i)rcsent  habiliments  was  not 
n  thinj:;  so  terrible  to  look  at  as  she  had  been  in 
her  wip}j;eries  at  Mrs.  Dobbs  Urouj^diton's  dinner- 
table.  Her  curls  were  laid  aside  altof^etlier, 
and  she  wore  simjjly  a  front  beneath  her  close 
bonnet — and  a  very  old  front,  too,  which  was 
not  loudly  otfensive  because  it  told  no  lies.  Her 
eyes  were  as  bright,  and  her  little  wizen  face 
was  as  sharp  as  ever;  but  the  wizen  face  and 
the  brif^ht  eyes  were  not  so  much  amiss  as  seen 
together  witli  the  old  dark  brown  silk  dress  wliich 
she  now  wore  as  tlicy  had  been  witii  the  wig- 
Rcries  and  the  evening  finery.  Even  now,  in 
lier  morning  costume,  in  her  woik-a-day  busi- 
ness dress,  as  we  may  call  it,  she  looked  to  be 
very  old — so  old  that  nobody  could  guess  her 
age.  People  attempting  to  guess  would  say  that 
she  must  be  at  least  over  eighty.  And  yet  she 
Avas  wiry,  and  strong,  and  nimble.  It  was  not 
because  she  was  feeble  that  she  was  thought  to 
be  so  old.  Tiiey  who  so  judged  of  her  were  led 
to  their  opinion  by  the  extreme  thinness  of  her 
face,  and  by  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  joined 
to  the  de])th  of  the  lioUows  in  which  they  lay, 
and  the  red  margin  by  which  they  were  sur- 
rounded. It  was  not  really  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Van  Siever  was  so  very  aged,  for  she  had  stilL 
some  years  to  live  before  she  would  reacli  eighty, 
but  that  she  was  such  a  weird  old  woman,  so 
small,  so  ghastly,  and  so  ugly!  "I'll  sew  him 
up,  if  he's  been  robbing  me,"  she  said.  "I 
will  indeed."  And  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  grab  at  tlie  ledger  wliich  j\Iusselboro  had  been 
using. 

"You  won't  understand  any  thing  from  that," 
said  he,  pushing  the  book  over  to  her. 
"You  can  explain  it  to  me." 
"That's  all  straight  sailing,  that  is." 
"And  where  docs  he  keep  the  figures  that 
ain't  straight  sailing?     That's  the  book  I  want 
to  see." 

"There  is  no  such  book." 
"  Look  here,  Gus — if  I  find  you  deceiving  me 
I'll  throw  you  overboard  as  snre  as  I'm  a  living 
woman.  I  will  indeed.  I'll  have  no  mercy. 
I've  stuck  to  you,  and  made  a  man  of  you,  and 
I  expect  you  to  stick  to  me." 

"  Not  much  of  a  man,"  said  JMussclboro,  with 
a  touch  of  scorn  in  his  voice. 

"You've  never  liad  a  shilling  yet  but  what  I 
gave  you." 

"Yes,  I  have.  I've  had  what  I've  worked 
for — and  worked  confounded  tiard  too." 

"Look  here,  Musselboro;  if  you're  going  to 
throw  me  over,  just  tell  me  so,  and  let  us  begin 
fair." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  throw  you  over.  I've  al- 
ways been  on  the  square  with  you.  Why  don't 
you  trust  me  out  and  out,  and  then  I  could  do 
a  deal  better  for  yon.  You  ask  me  now  about 
your  money.     I  don't  know  about  your  money, 


Mrs.  Van  Siever.  IIow  am  I  to  know  any 
thing  about  your  money,  Mrs.  Van  Siever? 
You  don't  give  me  any  power  of  keeping  a  hand 
njion  Dobbs  Broughton.  I  suppose  you  have 
security  from  Dobbs  Broughton,  but  I  don't 
know  what  security  you  have,  Mrs.  Van  Siever 
He  owes  you  now  £915  ICs.  2d.  on  last  year's 
account!" 

"Why  doesn't  he  give  mc  a  check  fur  the 
money?" 

"He  says  he  can't  spare  it.  You  may  have 
.£500,  and  the  rest  when  ho  can  give  it  you.  Or 
he'll  give  you  his  notc-of-hand  at  fourteen  days 
for  the  whole." 

"  Bother  his  note-of-hand.  Why  should  I 
take  his  notc-of-hand  ?" 

"Do  as  you  like,  Mrs.  Van  Siever." 
"It's  the  interest  on  my  own  money.  Why 
don't  he  give  it  me?  I  suppose  he  has  had  it." 
"You  must  ask  him  that,  INIrs.  Van  Siever. 
You're  in  partnership  with  him,  and  he  can  tell 
you.  Nobody  else  knows  any  thing  about  it. 
If  you  were  in  partnership  with  me,  then  of 
course  I  could  tell  you.  But  you're  not.  You've 
never  trusted  me,  Mrs.  Van  Siever." 

The  lady  remained  there  closeted  with  Mr. 
Musselboro  for  an  hour  after  that,  and  did,  I 
think,  at  length  learn  something  more  as  to  the 
details  of  her  partner's  business  than  her  faithful 
servant  Mr.  Musselboro  had  at  first  found  him- 
self able  to  give  to  her.  And  at  last  they  came 
to  friendly  and  confidential  terms,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  personal  welfare  of  Mr.  Dobbs 
Broughton  was,  I  fear,  somewhat  forgotten.  Not 
that  Mr.  Musselboro  palpably  and  plainly  threw 
Iiis  friend  overboard.  He  took  his  friend's  part 
— alleging  excuses  for  him,  and  pleading  some 
facts.  "  Of  course,  you  know,  a  man  like  that 
is  fond  of  pleasure,  Mrs.  Van  Siever.  He's 
been  at  it  more  or  less  all  his  life.  I  don't  sup- 
pose he  ever  missed  a  Derby,  or  an  Oaks,  or  the 
cup  at  Ascot,  or  the  Goodwood  in  his  life." 
"He'll  have  to  miss  them  before  long,  I'm 
thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Sievcr.  "And  as  to 
not  cashing  up,  you  must  remember,  Mrs.  Van 
Siever,  that  ten  per  cent,  won't  come  in  quite 
as  regularly  as  four  or  five.  When  you  go  for 
high  interest  there  must  be  hitches  here  and 
there.  There  must  indeed,  Mrs.  Van  Siever.' 
"I  know  all  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever. 
"  If  he  gave  it  me  as  soon  as  he  got  it  himself 
I  shouldn't  complain.  Never  mind.  He's 
only  got  to  give  me  my  little  bit  of  money  out 
of  tlie  business,  and  then  he  and  I  will  be  all 
square.  You  come  and  see  Clara  this  evening, 
Gus." 

Then  Mr.  Musselboro  put  Mrs.  Van  Sievei' 
into  another  cab,  and  went  out  upon  'Change- 
hanging  about  the  Bank,  and  standing  ir 
Threadneedle  Street,  talking  to  other  men  jusi 
like  himself.  When  he  saw  Dobbs  Broughtor 
he  told  that  gentleman  that  IMrs.  Van  Siever  haq 
been  in  her  tantrums,  but  that  he  had  managec 
to  pacify  her  before  she  left  Hook  Court.  "I'n 
to  take  her  the  check  for  the  five  hundred  to 
night,"  he  said. 


i]\ 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


1G5 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 


On  tlic  first  of  I\Lii-ch  Conway  Dalrym pic's 
easel  was  put  up  in  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's, 
boudoir  up  stairs,  the  canvas  was  placed  upon  it' 
on  which  the  outlines  of  Jael  and  8isera  had 
been  already  drawn,  and  Mrs.  Broughton  and 
Clara  Van  Sievcr  and  Conway  Dalrymplc  were 
assembled  with  the  view  of  steady  art- work. 
But  before  we  see  how  they  began  their  work 
together  we  will  go  back  for  a  moment  to  John 
Eames  on  his  return  to  his  London  lodgings. 
The  first  thing  every  mau  does  when  he  returns 
home  after  an  absence  is  to  look  at  his  letters, 
and  John  Eames  looked  at  his.  There  were 
not  very  many.  There  was  a  note  marked  im- 
mediate, from  Sir  Raffle  Biiffle,  in  which  Sir 
R.  had  scrawled  in  four  lines  a  notification  that 
he  slionld  be  driven  to  an  extremity  of  incon- 
venience if  Eames  were  not  at  his  post  at  half 
past  nine  on  the  following  morning.  "  I  think 
I  see  myself  there  at  that  hour,"  said  John. 
There  was  a  notification  of  a  house  dinner,  which 
he  was  asked  to  join,  at  his  club,  and  a  card  for 
an  evening  gathering  at  Lady  Giencora  Pal- 
liser's — procured  for  him  by  his  friend  Conway 
— and  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  the  house  of  his 
uncle,  IMr.  Toogood ;  and  there  was  a  scented 
note  in  the  handwriting  of  a  lady,  which  he  did 
not  recognize.  "  My  nearest  and  dearest  friend, 
M.  D.  M.,"  he  said,  as  he  opened  the  note  and 
looked  at  the  signature.  Then  he  read  the  let- 
ter from  IMiss  Deraolines. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Eajies, — Pray  come  to  me 
at  once.  I  know  that  you  are  to  be  back  to- 
morrow. Do  not  lose  an  hour  if  you  can  help 
it.  I  shall  be  at  home  at  half  past  five.  I  fear 
what  you  know  of  has  been  begun.  But  it  cer- 
tainly shall  not  go  on.  In  one  way  or  another 
it  must  be  prevented.  I  won't  say  another  word 
till  I  see  you,  but  pray  come  at  once. 

"Yours  always, 


'  Tliursday. 


M.  D.  M. 


Poor  mamma  isn't  very  well,  so  you  had 
better  ask  for  me." 

"Beautiful  I"  said  Johnny,  as  he  read  the 
note.  "  There's  nothing  I  like  so  much  as  a  mys- 
tei-y — especially  if  it's  about  nothing.  I  wonder 
why  she  is  so  desperately  anxious  that  the  pic- 
ture should  not  be  painted.  I'd  ask  Dalrymple, 
only  I  should  spoil  the  mystery."  Then  he  sat 
liimself  down  and  began  to  think  of  Lily.  There 
could  be  no  treason  to  Lily  in  his  amusing  him- 
self with  tiie  freaks  of  such  a  woniam  as  Miss 
Demolines. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  1st 
of  ^larch — the  day  following  that  on  which  Miss 
Demolines  had  written  her  note — tlie  easel  was 
put  up  and  the  canvas  was  placed  on  it  in  Mrs. 
Brougliton's  room.  Mrs.  Broughton  and  Clar^\ 
were  both  there,  and  when  they  had  seen  the 
outlines  as  far  as  it  had  been  drawn  they  pro- 
ceeded to  make  arrangements  for  their  future  op- 
erations.    The  period  of  work  was  to  begin  al- 


ways at  eleven,  and  was  to  be  continued  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  or  for  two  hours  on  the  days  on 
which  they  met.  I  fear  that  there  was  a  little 
imjiroper  scheming  in  this  against  the  two  per- 
sons whom  the  ladies  were  bound  to  obey.  Mr. 
Dobbs  Broughton  invariably  left  his  house  soon 
after  ten  in  the  morning.  It  would  sometimes 
happen,  though  not  frequently,  that  he  returned 
home  early  in  the  day — at  four  perhaps,  or  even 
before  that ;  and  should  he  chance  to  do  so 
while  the  picture  was  going  on  he  would  catch 
them  at  their  work  if  the  work  were  postponed 
till  after  luncheon.  And  then  again,  Mrs.  Van 
Siever  would  often  go  out  in  the  morning,  and 
when  she  did  so  would  always  go  Avithout  her 
daughter.  On  such  occasions  she  went  into  the 
city,  or  to  other  resorts  of  business,  at  which,  in 
some  manner  quite  unintelligible  to  her  daugh- 
ter, she  looked  after  her  money.  But  when  she 
did  not  go  out  in  the  morning  she  did  go  out  in 
the  afternoon,  and  she  would  then  require  her 
daughter's  company.  There  was  some  place  to 
which  she  always  went  of  a  Friday  morning,  and 
at  which  she  staid  for  two  or  three  hours. 
Friday  therefore  was  a  fitting  day  on  which  to 
begin  the  work  at  INIrs.  Broughton's  house.  All 
this  was  exjilained  between  the  three  conspira- 
tors. Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  declared  that  if 
she  entertained  the  slightest  idea  that  her  hus- 
band would  object  to  the  painting  of  the  picture 
in  her  room  nothing  on  earth  would  induce  her 
to  lend  her  countenance  to  it ;  but  yet  it  might 
be  well  not  to  tell  him  just  at  first,  ])erhaps  not 
till  the  sittings  were  over — perhaps  not  till  the 
picture  was  finished ;  as,  otherwise,  tidings  of' 
the  picture  might  get  round  to  ears  which  were 
not  intended  to  hear  it.  "Poor  dear  Dobbs  is 
so  careless  with  a  secret."  Miss  Van  Siever 
exfilained  her  motives  in  a  very  diflferent  wa}'. 
"  I  know  mamma  would  not  let  me  do  it  if  she 
knew  it;  and  therefore  I  shall  not  tell  her." 
"  My  dear  Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  with  a 
smile,  "you  are  so  outspoken!"  "And  why 
not?"  said  Miss  Van  Siever.  "I  am  old 
enough  to  judge  for  myself.  If  mamma  does 
not  want  to  be  deceived  she  ought  not  to  treat 
me  like  a  child.'  Of  course  she'll  find  it  out 
sooner  or  later ;  but  I  don't  care  about  that." 
Conway  Dalrymple  said  nothing  as  the  two 
ladies  were  thus  excusing  themselves.  "  How 
delightful  it  must  be  not  to  have  a  master!"  said 
Mrs.  Broughton,  addressing  him.  "But  then 
a  man  has  to  work  for  his  own  bread,"  said  he. 
"I  suppose  it  comes  about  equal  in  the  long- 
rjm." 

Very  little  drawing  or  painting  was  done  on 
that  day.  In  the  fiist  place,  it  was  necessary 
that  the  question  of  costume  should  be  settled, 
and  both  Mrs.  Broughton  and  the  artist  had 
much  to  say  on  the  subject.  It  was  considered 
])roper  that  Jael  should  be  dressed  as  a  Jewess, 
and  tliere  came  to  be  much  question  how  Jew- 
esses dressed  themselves  in  those  very  early 
days.  Mrs.  Broughton  had  prepared  her  jewels 
and  raiment  of  many  colors,  but  the  painter  de- 
clared that  the  wife  of  Hebcr  the  Kenitc  would 


166 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  I3AESET. 


discovered  from  her  IJible  tliat  Heber  had  been 
connected  by  family  ties  with  Moses,  she  was 
more  than  ever  sure  tliat  Huber's  wife  would 
have  in  her  tent  much  of  the  spoilings  of  the 
Egyjjtians.  And  when  Clara  Van  .Siever  sug- 
gested tliat  at  any  rate  she  would  not  have 
worn  tlicm  in  a  time  of  confusion  when  soldiers 
were  loose,  flying  about  the  country,  Mrs. 
Broughton  was  quite  confulent  that  she  would 
have  i)ut  them  on  before  she  invited  the  captain 
of  the  enemy's  host  into  her  tent.  The  artist 
at  last  took  the  matter  into  his  own  hand  by 
declaring  that  Miss  Van  Siever  would  sit  the 
subject  much  better  without  jewels,  and  there- 
fore all  Mrs.  Broughton's  gewgaws  were  jmt 
back  into  their  boxes.  And  then  on  four  dif- 
ferent times  the  two  ladies  had  to  retire  into 
Jlrs.  Brougliton's  room  in  order  that  Jacl  might 
be  arranged  in  various  costumes — and  in  each 
costume  she  had  to  kneel  down,  taking  the 
hammer  in  her  hand,  and  holding  the  pointed 
stick  which  had  been  prepared  to  do  duty  as 
the  nail  n])on  tlic  forehead  of  a  dummy  Sisera. 
At  last  it  was  decided  that  her  raiment  should 
be  altogether  white,  and  that  she  sliould  wear, 
twisted  round  her  head  and  falling  over  her 
shoulder,  a  Ivoman  silk  scarf  of  various  colors. 
"Where  Jael  could  have  gotten  it  I  don't 
know,"'  said  Clara.  "You  may  be  sure 
there  were  lots  of  such  things  among  the  Egy 
tians,"  said  Mrs.  Brougliton,  "and  that  M 
brought  away  all  the  best  for  his  own  family." 

"And  who  is  to  be  Sisera?"  asked  Mrs. 
Broughton  in  one  of  the  pauses  in  their  work. 

"I'm  thinking  of  asking  my  friend  John 
Eames  to  sit." 

"  Of  course  we  can  not  sit  together,"  said 
Miss  Van  Siever. 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  should,"  said 
Dalrymjde.  "I  can  do  the  second  figure  in 
my  own  room."  Then  there  was  a  bargain 
made  that  Sisera  should  not  be  a  portrait. 
"It  would  never  do,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton, 
shaking  her  head  very  gravely. 

Though  there  was  really  very  little  done  to 
the  picture  on  that  day,  the  work  was  com- 
menced; and  Mrs.  Broughton,  who  had  at  first 
objected  strongly  to  the  idea,  and  who  had  said 
twenty  times  that  it  was  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion that  it  should  be  done  in  her  house,  became 
very  eager  in  her  delight  about  it.  Nobody 
should  know  any  thing  of  the  picture  till  it 
should  be  exhibited.  That  would  be  best. 
And  it  should  be  the  picture  of  the  year !  She 
was  a  little  heart-broken  when  Dalrymjde  as- 
sured her  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  finished 
for  cxhil)ition  in  that  May  ;  but  she  came  to 
again  when  he  declared  that  he  meant  to  put 
out  all  his  strength  upon  it.  "There  will  be 
five  or  six  months'  work  in  it,"  he  said.  "  Will 
there  indeed  ?  And  how  much  work  was  there 
in  'The  Graces?'"     "The   Graces,"  as   will 


have  no  jewels.     But   when    Mrs.  Broughton  I  curacy,  but   contented   himself  with  declaring 

" that  with  such  a  model  as  Mrs.  Broughton  the 

picture  had  been  comparatively  easy. 

Mrs.  Broughton,  having  no  doubt  that  ulti- 
mate object  of  which  she  had  spoken  to  her 
friend  Conway  steadily  in  view,  took  occasion 
before  the  sitting  was  over  to  leave  the  room, 
so  that  the  artist  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  a  word  in  private  to  his  model — if 
he  had  any  such  word  to  speak.  And  Mrs. 
Broughton,  as  she  did  this,  felt  that  she  was. 
doing  her  duty  as  a  wife,  a  friend,  and  a  Chris- 
tian. She  was  doing  her  duty  as  a  wife,  be- 
cause she  was  giving  the  clearest  proof  in  the 
world — the  clearest,  at  any  rate,  to  iierself — that 
the  intimacy  between  herself  and  iicr  friend 
Conway  had  in  it  nothing  that  was  improper. 
And  she  was  doing  her  duty  as  a  friend,  be- 
cause Clara  Van  Siever,  with  her  large  expecta- 
tions, would  be  an  eligible  wife.  And  she  was 
doing  her  duty  as  a  Christian,  because  the 
whole  thing  was  intended  to  be  moral.  Miss 
IJemolines  had  declared  that  her  friend  Maria 
Clutterbuck — as  Miss  Demolines  delighted  to 
call  Mrs.  Broughton,  in  memory  of  dear  ohl  in- 
nocent days  —  had  high  principles;  and  the 
reader  will  see  that  she  was  justified  in  her  dec- 
laration. "It  will  be  better  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Broughton,  as  she  sat  upon  her  bed  and  wiped 


tliat  /K'tear  from  the  corner  of  her  eye.  "Yes;  it 
gyp-y'^vill  be  better  so.  There  is  a  pang.  Of  course 
OSes'  there's  a  pang.  But  it  will  be  better  so."  Act- 
ing upon  this  high  principle,  she  allowed  Con- 
way Dalryinple  five  minutes  to  say  what  he  had 
to  say  to  Clara  Van  Siever.  Then  she  allowed 
herself  to  indulge  in  some  very  savage  feelings 
in  reference  to  her  husband — accusing  her  hus- 
band in  her  thoughts  of  great  cruelty — nay,  of 
brutality,  because  of  certain  sharp  words  that 
he  had  said  as  to  Conway  Dalrymple.  "But  of 
course  he  can't  understand, "said  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton to  herself.  "How  is  it  to  be  expected  that 
he  should  understand?" 

But  she  allowed  her  friend  on  this  occasion 
only  five  minutes,  thinking  probably  that  so 
much  time  might  suffice.  A  woman,  when  she 
is  jealous,  is  a]it  to  attribute  to  the  other  woman 
with  whom  her  jealousy  is  concerned  both  weak- 
ness and  timidity,  and  to  the  man  both  audac- 
ity and  strength.  A  woman  who  has  herself 
taken  perhaps  twelve  months  in  the  winning, 
will  think  that  another  woman  is  to  be  won  in 
five  minutes.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  had  ever  been  won  by  any 
one  except  by  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton.  At  least, 
let  it  not  be  supposed  that  she  had  ever  ac- 
knowledged a  spark  of  love  for  Conwaj'  Dalrym- 
ple. But  nevertheless  there  was  enough  of  jeal- 
ousy in  her  ]n-esent  mood  to  make  her  think 
poorly  of  Miss  Van  Siever's  capacity  for  stand- 
ing a  siege  against  the  artist's  eloquence.  Oth- 
erwise, having  left  the  two  together  with  the 
object  which  she  had  acknowledged  to  herself, 

])erhaps  be  remembered,  was  the  tri])le  portrait  i  she  would  hardly  have  returned  to  them  after  so 

of  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  herself.     This  ques-    very  short  an  interval. 

tion  the  artist  did  not  answer  with  absolute  ac-  I       "I  hope  you  won't  dislike  the  trouble  of  all 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


1G7 


this?"'  said  Dalrymplc  to  his  model,  as  soon  as 
Mrs.  Brougliton  was  gone. 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  like  it  very  much," 
said  IMiss  Van  Sievcr. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  bore;  but  I  hope 
you'll  go  through  with  it." 

"I  shall  if  I  am  not  prevented,"  said  Miss 
Van  Sievcr.  "When  I've  said  that  111  do  a 
tiling  I  like  to  do  it." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation  which 
took  up  a  considerable  portion  of  the  five  min- 
utes. IMiss  Van  Sievcr  was  not  holding  her 
nail  during  these  moments,  but  was  sitting  in  a 
commonplace  way  on  her  chair,  wliilc  Dalrym- 
plc was  scraping  his  pallet.  "I  wonder  what 
it  was  that  first  induced  you  to  sit  ?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  took  a  ftincy  for  it." 

"I'm  very  glad  yon  did  take  the  fancy. 
You'll  make  an  excellent  model.  If  you  won't 
mind  posing  again  for  a  few  minutes — I  will 
not  weary  you  to-day.  Your  right  arm  a  little 
more  forward." 

"  But  I  should  tumble  down." 

•'Not  if  you  lean  well  on  to  the  nail." 

"But  that  would  have  woken  Siscra  before 
she  had  struck  a  blow." 

"Never  mind  that.  Let  us  try  it."  Then 
Mrs.  Broughton  returned,  with  that  pleasant 
feeling  in  her  bosom  of  having  done  her  duty 
as  a  wife,  a  friend,  and  a  Christian.  "Mrs. 
Broughton,"  continued  the  painter,  "just  steady 
Miss  Van  Siever's  shoulder  with  your  hand ; 
and  now  bring  the  arm  and  the  elbow  a  little 
more  forward." 

"But  Jael  did  not  have  a  friend  to  help  her 
in  that  way,"  said  Miss  Van  Sievcr. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a  half  the  two  la- 
dies retired,  and  Jael  disrobed  herself,  and  ISIiss 
Van  Siever  put  on  her  customary  raiment.  It 
was  agreed  among  them  that  they  had  com- 
menced their  work  ausjjiciously,  and  that  they 
would  meet  again  on  the  following  Monday. 
Tiie  artist  begged  to  be  allowed  an  hour  to  go 
on  with  his  work  in  Mrs.  Broughton's  room,  and 
the  hour  was  conceded  to  him.  It  was  rmder- 
stood  tliat  lie  could  not  take  the  canvas  back- 
ward and  forward  with  him  to  his  own  house, 
and  he  pointed  out  that  no  progress  whatever 
could  be  made  unless  he  were  occasionally  al- 
lowed some  such  grace  as  this.  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton doubted  and  hesitated,  made  diflSculties, 
and  lifted  up  her  hands  in  despair.  "It  is  easy 
fur  }ou  to  say,  Why  not  ?  but  I  know  very  well 
why  not."  But  at  last  she  gave  way.  "  Honi 
soit  qui  mal  y  pense,"  she  said;  "that  must/ 
be  my  protection."  So  she  followed  Miss  Van 
Siever  down  stairs,  leaving  Mr.  Dalrymplc  in 
jiossession  of  her  boudoir.  "I  shall  give  you 
just  one  hour,"  she  said,  "and  then  I  shall 
come  and  turn  you  out."  So  she  went  down, 
and,  as  Miss  Van  Siever  would  not  stay  to  lunch 
with  her,  she  ate  her  lunch  by  herself,  sending 
a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  biscuit  up  to  the  poor 
painter  at  his  work. 

Exactly  at  the  end  of  the  hour  she  returned  to 
him.     "Now,  Conway,  you  must  go,"  she  said. 


"  But  why  in  such  a  huriy  ?" 

"Because  I  say  that  it  must  be  so.  When  I 
say  so,  pray  let  that  be  sufficient."  But  still 
Dalrymjjle  went  on  working.  "Conw.iy,"  she 
said,  "  how  can  you  treat  me  with  so  much  dis- 
dain ?" 

"Disdain,  Mrs.  Broughton!" 

"Yes,  disdain.  Have  I  not  bogged  you  to 
understand  that  I  can  not  allow  you  to  remain 
here,  and  yet  you  pay  no  attention  to  my  wishes !" 

"I  have  done  now;"  and  he  began  to  put 
his  brushes  and  paints  together.  "I  suppose 
all  these  things  may  remain  here  ?" 

"Yes ;  they  may  remain.  They  must  do  so, 
of  course.  Tiiere  ;  if  you  will  put  the  easel  in 
the  corner,  with  the  canvas  behind  it,  they  will 
not  be  seen  if  he  should  chance  to  come  into 
the  room." 

"  He  would  not  be  angrv,  I  suppose,  if  he  saw 
them  ?" 

"Tliere  is  no  knowing.  IMen  are  so  unrea- 
sonable. All  men  are,  I  tliink.  All  those  are 
whom  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  know.  Women 
generally  say  that  men  are  selfish.  I  do  not 
comj)lain  so  much  that  the}'  are  selfish  as  that 
they  are  thoughtless.  Tiiey  are  headstrong  and 
do  not  look  forward  to  results.  Now  you— I  do 
not  tliink  you  would  willingly  do  me  an  injury." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  would." 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  not ;  but  yet  you 
would  forget  to  save  me  from  one." 

"  What  injury?" 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  I  am  not  thinking  of  any 
thing  in  particular.  From  myself,  for  instance. 
But  we  will  not  talk-  about  that.  That  way 
madness  lies.  Tell  me,  Conway — what  do  you 
think  of  Clara  Van  Siever  ?" 

"  She  is  very  handsome,  certainly." 

"And  clever?" 

"Decidedly  clever.  I  should  think  she  has 
a  temper  of  her  own." 

"What  woman  is  there  worth  a  straw  that 
has  not  ?  If  Clara  Van  Siever  were  ill-used 
she  would  resent  it.  I  do  not  doubt  that  for  a 
moment.  I  should  not  like  to  be  the  man  who 
would  do  it." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  Conway. 

"But  there  is  plent}- of  feminine  softness  in 
that  character  if  she  were  treated  witli  love  and 
kindness.  Conway,  if  you  will  take  my  advice 
you  will  ask  Clara  Van  Siever  to  be  your  wife. 
But  perhaps  you  have  alreadv." 

"AVho?  i?" 

"  Yes ;  you." 

"  I  have  not  done  it  yet,  certainly,  I\Irs. 
Broughton." 

"  And  why  should  you  not  do  it  ?" 

"  There  are  two  or  three  reasons  ;  but  perhaps 
none  of  any  great  importance.  Do  you  know 
of  none,  Mrs.  Broughton?" 

"  I  know  of  none,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  in  a 
veiy  serious — in  almost  a  tragic  tone — "of  none 
that  should  weigh  for  a  moment.  As  fi\r  as  I 
am  concerned,  nothing  would  give  me  more 
plcasui'e." 

"That  is  so  kind  of  you  !" 


1G8 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  I  mean  to  be  kind.  I  do  indeed,  Conway. 
I  know  it  will  he  better  for  you  that  yoti  should 
be  settled — very  much  better.  And  it  will  be 
better  for  me.  I  do  not  mind  ndmittiny  that ; 
though  in  saying  so  I  trust  i^rcatly  to  your  gen- 
erosity to  iuter])rct  my  words  properly." 

"  I  shall  not  Hatter  myself,  if  you  mean  that." 

*'TIicro  is  no  question  of  tiattcry,  Conway. 
The  question  is  sim])ly  of  truth  and  jirudence. 
Do  you  not  know  that  it  would  be  better  that 
you  should  be  married  ?" 

"  Not  unless  a  certain  gentleman  were  to  die 
first,"  said  Conway  l)alrynq)le,  as  he  dcj)0sited 
the  last  of  his  jiaiuting  parajthernalia  in  the  re- 
cess which  had  been  prepared  for  them  by  Mrs. 
Broughton. 

"  Conway,  how  can  you  speak  in  that  wicked, 
wicked  way  !" 

"I  can  assure  you  I  do  not  wish  the  gentle- 
man in  question  the  slightest  harm  in  the  world. 
If  his  welfare  depended  on  me  he  should  be  as 
safe  as  the  Bank  of  England." 

"  And  you  will  not  take  my  advice  ?" 

"What  advice?" 

"About  Clara." 

"  Mrs.  Broughton,  matrimony  is  a  very  im- 
portant thing." 

"  Indeed  it  is — oh,  who  can  say  how  import- 
ant !  There  was  a  time,  Conway,  when  I 
thouglit  you  had  given  your  heart  to  Madalina 
Demolines." 

"  Heaven  forbid !" 

"  And  I  grieved,  because  I  thought  that  she 
was  not  worthy  of  you." 

"There  was  never  any  thing  in  that,  Mrs. 
Broughton." 

"  She  thought  that  there  was.  At  any  rate, 
she  said  so.  I  know  that  for  certain.  She  told 
me  so  herself.  But  let  that  pass.  Clara  Van 
Siever  is  in  every  respect  very  different  from 
Madalina.  Clara,  I  think,  is  worthy  of  you. 
And,  Conway — of  course  it  is  not  for  me  to  dic- 
tate to  you  ;  but  this  I  must  tell  you — "  Then 
she  paused,  as  though  she  did  not  know  how  to 
finish  her  sentence. 

"What  must  you  tell  me  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  nothing  more.  If  you  can 
not  understand  what  I  have  said  you  must  be 
more  dull  of  comprehension  than  I  believe  you  to 
be.  Now  go.  Why  are  you  not  gone  this  half- 
hour?" 

"  How  could  I  go  while  you  were  giving  me 
all  this  good  advice?" 

"I  have  not  asked  you  to  stay.  Go  now,  at 
any  rate.  And  remember,  Conway,  if  this  pic- 
ture is  to  go  on,  I  will  not  have  you  remaining 
here  after  the  work  is  done.  Will  you  remem- 
ber that?"  And  she  held  him  by  the  liand 
while  he  declared  that  he  would  remember  it. 

Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  no  more  in  love 
with  Conway  Dalrymple  than  she  was  in  love 
witli  King  Charles  on  horseback  at  Charing 
Cross.  And  over  and  beyond  the  ])rotection 
whicii  came  to  her  in  the  course  of  nature  from 
unimpassioned  feelings  in  this  special  phase  of 
her  life — and  indeed,  I  may  say,  in  every  phase 


of  her  life — it  must  be  acknowledged  on  her  be- 
half that  she  did  enjoy  that  protection  which 
comes  from  what  we  call  ])rinciple — though  the 
princijde  was  not  perhaps  veiy  high  of  its  kind. 
Madalina  Demolines  had  been  right  wlicn  she 
talked  of  her  friend  Maria's  princijdes.  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  been  so  far  lucky  in  that  jump 
in  the  dark  which  he  had  made  in  taking  a  wife 
to  himself  that  he  had  not  fallen  upon  a  really 
vicious  woman,  or  upon  a  woman  of  strong  feel- 
ing. If  it  had  come  to  be  the  lot  of  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  to  have  six  hours'  work  to  do  every 
day  of  her  life,  I  think  that  the  work  would 
have  been  doTie  badly,  but  that  it  would  have 
kept  her  free  from  all  danger.  As  it  was  she 
had  nothing  to  do.  She  had  no  child.  She 
was  not  given  to  much  reading.  She  could  not 
sit  with  a  needle  in  her  hand  all  day.  She  had 
no  aptitude  for  May  meetings  or  the  excite- 
ment of  charitable  good  works.  Life  with  her 
was  very  dull,  and  she  found  no  amusement" 
within  her  reach  so  easy  and  so  pleasant  as  the 
amusement  of  pretending  to  be  in  love.  If  all 
that  she  did  and  all  that  she  said  could  only 
have  been  taken  for  its  worth  and  for  nothing 
more  by  the  different  persons  concerned,  there 
was  very  little  in  it  to  flatter  Mr.  Dalrymple  or 
to  give  cause  for  tribulation  to  Mr.  Broughton. 
She  probably  cared  but  little  for  either  of  them. 
She  Avas  one  of  those  women  to  whom  it  is  not 
given  by  nature  to  care  very  much  for  any  body. 
But  of  the  two  she  certainly  cared  the  most 
for  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton — because  Mr.  Dobbs 
Broughton  belonged  to  her.  As  to  leaving  Mr. 
Dobbs  Broughton's  house,  and  putting  herself 
into  the  hands  of  another  man — no  Imogen  of  a 
wife  was  ever  less  likely  to  take  a  stc])  so  wick- 
ed, so  dangerous,  and  so  generally  disagreeable 
to  all  the  parties  concerned. 

But  Conway  Dalrymple  —  though  now  and 
again  he  had  got  a  side-glance  at  her  true 
.character  with  clear-seeing  eyes  —  did  allow 
•  himself  to  be  flattered  and  deceived.  He  knew 
that  she  was  foolish  and  ignorant,  and  that  she 
often  talked  wonderful  nonsense.  He  knew 
also  that  she  was  continually  contradicting  her- 
self— as  w.hen  she  would  strenuously  beg  him 
to  leave  her,  while  she  would  continue  to  talk 
to  him  in  a  strain  that  pi-evented  the  jiossibility 
of  his  going.  But,  nevertheless,  he  was  flattered, 
and  he  did  believe  that  she  loved  liim.  As  to  his 
love  for  her — he  knew  very  well  that  it  amounted 
to  nothing.  Now  and  again,  perhaps  twice  a  week, 
if  he  saw  her  as  often,  he  would  say  something 
which  would  imply  a  declaration  of  affection. 
He  felt  that  as  much  as  that  was  expected  from 
him,  and  that  he  ought  not  to  hope  to  get  off 
cheaper.  And  now  that  this  little  play,  was 
going  on  about  ]\Iiss  Van  Siever,  he  did  think 
that  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  doing  her  very 
best  to  overcome  an  unfortunate  attaciiment.: 
It  is  so  gratifying  to  a  young  man's  feelings  to 
suppose  that  another  man's  wife  has  conceived 
an  unfortunate  attachment  for  him  I  Conway 
Dalrymple  ought  not  to  have  been  fooled  by  such 
a  woman  ;  but  I  fear  that  he  was  fooled  by  her,' 


THE  LAST  CIHiONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


1C9 


As  he  returned  homo  to-day  from  Mrs. 
Broughton's  house  to  his  own  lodgings  lie  nim- 
Llcd  out  for  a  while  into  Kensington  Gardens, 
and  thought  of  his  position  seriously.  "I  don't 
see  wliy  I  should  not  marry  her,"  he  said  to 
himself,  thinking  of  course  of  ]Miss  Van  Sievcr. 
"If  Maria  is  not  in  earnest  it  is  not  my  fault. 
And  it  would  be  my  Avish  that  she  should  be  in 
earnest.  If  I  supi)ose  her  to  be  so,  and  take 
her  at  her  word,  she  can  have  no  right  to  quar- 
rel with  me.  Poor  IMaria !  at  any  rate  it  will 
be  better  for  her,  for  no  good  can  come  of  this 
kind  of  thing.  And,  by  Heavens!  with  a  wo- 
man like  that,  of  strong  feelings,  one  never  knows 
what  may  happen."  And  then  he  thought  of 
the  condition  he  would  be  in  if  he  were  to  find 
her  some  fine  day  in  his  own  rooms,  and  if  she 
were  to  tell  him  that  she  could  not  go  home 
jigain,  and  that  she  meant  to  remain  witii  him! 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  had 
gone  down  into  her  own  drawing-room,  had 
tucked  herself  up  on  the  sofa,  and  had  fallen 
fast  asleep. 


CIIAPTEU  XXXIX. 

A     X  i:  W     F  L  I  R  T  A  T  I  O  X. 

Joiix  Eami::s  sat  at  his  office  on  the  day  after 
[  his  return  to  London,  and  answered  the  various 
letters  which  he  had  found  waiting  for  him  at 
his  lodgings  on  the  previous  evening.  To  Miss 
Dcmolines  he  had  already  written  from  his  club 
— a  single  line,  which  he  considered  to  be  ap- 
propriate to  the  mysterious  necessities  of  the 
occasion.  "  I  will  be  with  you  at  a  quarter  to 
six  to-morrow. — .J.  E.  Just  returned."  There 
was  not  another  word  ;  and  as  he  scrawled  it  at 
one  of  the  club  tables  while  two  or  three  men 
'  ^ere  talking  to  him,  he  felt  rather  proud  of  his 
correspondence.  "  It  was  capital  fun,"  he  said  ; 
"and  after  all" — the  "all"  on  this  occasion  being 


Lily  Dale  and  the  sadness  of  his  disappoinlment 
at  Allington — "  after  all,  let  a  fellow  be  ever  so 
down  in  the  mouth,  a  little  amusement  should 
do  him  good."  And  he  reflected  further  that 
the  more  a  fellow  be  "  down  in  the  moutli"  the 
more  good  the  amusement  would  do  him.  He 
sent  off  his  note,  therefore,  witli  some  little  in- 
ward rejoicing — and  a  word  or  two  also  of  spok- 
en rejoicing.  "  What  fun  women  arc  some- 
times!" he  said  to  one  of  his  friends — a  friend 
with  whom  he  was  very  intimate,  calling  him 
always  Fred,  and  slapping  his  back,  but  whom 
he  never  by  any  chance  saw  out  of  his  club. 

"  AVhat's  up  now,  Johnny  ?  Some  good  for- 
tune ?" 

"  Good  fortune  5  no.  I  never  have  good  for- 
tunes of  that  kind.  But  I've  got  hold  of  a  young 
woman — or  rather  a  young  woman  has  got  hold 
of  me,  who  insists  on  having  a  mystery  with  me. 
In  the  mystery  itself  there  is  not  the  slightest 
interest.  But  the  mysteriousness  of  it  is  charm- 
ing. I  have  just  written  to  her  three  words  to 
settle  an  appointment  for  to-morrow.  We  don't 
sign  our  names  lest  ^the  Postmaster-General 
should  find  out  all  about  it," 

"  Is  she  pretty?" 

"Well — she  isn't  ugly.  She  has  just  enough 
of  good  looks  to  make  the  sort  of  thing  jiass  off 
pleasantly.  A  mystery  with  a  downiiglit  ugly 
young  woman  would  be  unpleasant." 

After  this  fashion  the  note  from  ]Miss  Demo- 
lines  had  been  received,  and  answered  at  once, 
but  the  other  letters  remained  in  his  pocket  till 
he  reached  his  office  on  the  following  morning. 
Sir  Kaffic  had  begged  him  to  be  there  at  half 
past  nine.  This  he  had  sworn  he  would  not 
do ;  but  he  did  seat  himself  in  his  room  at  ten 
minutes  before  ten,  finding  of  course  the  whole 
building  untenanted  at  that  early  hour — that 
unearthly  hour,  as  Johnny  called  it  himself. 
"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  really  is  here  this 
morning,"  Johnny  said,  as  he  entered  the  build- 
ing, "just  that  he  may  have  an  oj^portunity  of 
jumping  on  me."  But  Sir  Paffle  was  not  there, 
and  then  Johnny  began  to  abuse  Sir  Raffle. 
"If  ever  I  come  here  early  to  meet  him  again, 
because  he  says  he  means  to  be  here  himself,  I 
hope  I  may  be — blessed,"  On  that  especial 
morning  it  was  twelve  before  Sir  Raffle  made 
his  appearance,  and  Johnny  avenged  himself — 
I  regret  to  have  to  tell  it — by  a  fib.  That  Sir 
Rafife  fibbed  first  was  no  valid  excuse  whatever 
for  Fames. 

"  I've  been  at  it  ever  since  six  o'clock,"  said 
Sir  Raflie. 

'•  At  what?"  said  Johnny. 

"  Work,  to  be  sure — and  very  hard  work  too. 
I  believe  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  thinks 
that  he  can  call  upon  mo  to  any  extent  that  ho 
pleases — just  any  extent  that  he  pleases.  lie 
doesn't  give  me  credit  for  a  desire  to  have  a  sin- 
gle hour  to  myself." 

"  Wiiat  would  he  do.  Sir  Raffle,  if  you  were 
to  get  ill,  or  wear  yourself  out  ?" 

"He  knows  I'm  not  one  of  the  wearing-out 
sort.     You  got  ray  note  last  night?" 


170 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"Yes;  I*got  your  note."  |  implicitly — ofsomc  young  man  who  would  re.illy 

"I'msoiTV  tlmt  I  trouMed  you  ;  hut  I  coulilu't    ht-liovo  ull  tluvt  he  said  of  liimseU"  and  of  the 


1 


lielp  it.     I  didn't  ex])cct  to  j^et  a  hox  full  of 
jjajicrs  at  eleven  o'clock  last  night." 


Cliancellor  of  the  Exchequer ;   hut  he  was  wise 
enough  to  perceive  that  no  such  young  man  was 


You  diiln't  ])ut  me  out,  Sir  Raflle  ;  I  hap-  ,  to  he  had  ;  or  that  any  such  young  man — could 


j'cned  to  have  business  of  my  own  which  pre- 
vented the  ]iossibility  of  my  being  here  early." 
Tllis  was  the  way  in  which  John  Eames 
avenged  himself.  Sir  Raille  turned  his  face 
upon  his  ])rivatc  secretary,  and  his  face  was 
very  black.  Johnny  bore  the  gaze  without 
dropi)ing  an  eyelid.  "I'm  not  going  to  stand 
it,  and  he  may  as  well  know  that  at  once," 
Johnny  said  to  one  of  his  friends  in  tlie  ofhcc 
liftei'ward.  "  If  he  ever  wants  any  thing  real- 
ly done,  I'll  do  it — though  it  should  take  me 


such  a  one  ho  found — would  be  absolutely  use- 
less for  any  jnirposes  of  work,  lie  knew  him- 
self to  be  a  liar  whom  nobody  trusted.  And  he 
Ivnew  himself  also  to  be  a  bully — though  he  could 
not  think  so  low  of  himself  as  to  believe  that  he 
was  a  bully  whom  nobody  feared.  A  i)rivate 
secretary  was  at  the  least  bound  to  jiretend  to 
believe  in  him.  There  is  a  decency  in  sutli 
things,  and  that  decency  John  Eames  did  not 
observe.  He  thouglit  that  he  must  get  rid  of 
John    Eames,   in    sjiitc   of  certain   attractions 


tv.elve  hours  at  a  stretch.     But  I'm  not  going    which   belonged   to  Johnny's   a))i)earance   and 


general  manners,  and  social  standing,  and  rc- 
jmted  wealth.  But  it  would  not  be  wise  to 
punish  a  man  on  tlie  spot  for  breaking  an  ap- 
pointment which  he  himself  had  not  kejit,  and 
therefore  he  would  wait  for  another  o])])ortunity. 
"Yon  had  better  go  to  your  own  room  now," 
he  said.  "  I  am  engaged  on  a  matter  connected 
with  the  Treasury,  in  which  I  will  not  ask  for 
your  assistance."  He  knew  that  Eames  would 
not  believe  a  word  as  to  what  he  said  about  the 
Treasury — not  even  some  very  trifling  base  of 
truth  which  did  exist ;  but  the  boast  gave  him 
an  op]3ortunity  of  putting  an  end  to  the  interview 
after  his  own  fashion.  Then  John  Eames  went 
to  his  own  room  and  answered  the  letters  which 
he  had  in  his  pocket. 

To  the  clul)  dinner  he  would  not  go.  ' '  "What's 
the  use  of  paying  two  guineas  for  a  dinner  with 
fellows  you  see  every  day  of  your  life  ?"  lie  said. 
To  Lady  Glencora's  he  would  go,  and  lie  wrote 
fa  line  to  his  friend  Dalrymple  proposing  that 
they  should  go  together.  And  he  would  dine 
/with  his  cousin  Toogood  in  Tavistock  Squai-e. 
'"One  meets  the  queerest  peo]ile  in  the  world 
there,"  he  said  ;  "  but  Tommy  Toogood  is  such 
a  good  fellow  himself!"  After  that  he  had  his 
lunch.  Then  he  read  the  paper,  and  before  ho 
went  away  he  wrote  a  dozen  or  two  of  private 
notes,  presenting  Sir  Raffle's  compliments  right 
and  left,  and  giving  in  no  one  note  a  single  word 
of  information  that  could  be  of  any  use  to  any 
person.  Having  thus  earned  his  salary  by  half 
])ast  four  o'clock,  he  got  into  a  Hansom  cab  and 
liad  himself  driven  to  rorehester  Terrace.  Miss 
Demolines  was  at  home,  of  course,  and  he  soon 
ffound  himself  closeted  with  that  interesting 
young  woman. 

"I  thought  you  never  would  have  come!" 
These  were  the  first  words  she  spoke. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Demolines,  you  must  not  for- 
get that  I  have  my  bread  to  earn." 

"Fiddle-stick — bread!  As  if  I  didn't  know 
that  you  can  get  away  from  your  office  when  you 
choose." 

"But  indeed  I  can  not." 

"  What  is  there  to  prevent  you,  Mr.  Eames  ?" 

"I'm  not  tied  up  like  a  dog,  certainly;  but 
such  a  one.  He  would  have  greatly  deliglited  \  who  do  you  suppose  will  do  my  work  if  I  do 
in  the  services  of  some  one  who  would  trust  him  I  not  do  it  myself?     It  is  a  fact,  though  the  world 


to  ]n-ctend  to  believe  all  the  lies  he  tells  nie 
about  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  If 
tliat  is  to  be  ]iart  of  the  pri\ate  secretary's  busi- 
ness ho  had  better  get  somebody  else."  But 
now  Sir  Raffle  was  very  angry,  and  his  counte- 
nance was  full  of  wrath  as  he  looked  down  upon 
his  subordinate  minister.  "If  I  had  come 
here,  ^Ir.  Eames,  and  had  found  you  absent,  I 
should  have  been  very  much  annoyed,  very 
much  annoyed  indeed,  after  having  written  as  I 
did." 

"You  would  have  found  me  absent  at  the 
hour  you  named.  As  I  wasn't  here  then,  I 
think  it's  only  fair  to  say  so." 

"I'm  afraid  yon  begrudge  your  time  to  the 
service,  Jlr.  Eames." 

"I  do  begrudge  it  when  the  service  doesn't 
want  it." 

"At  your  age,  Mr.  Eames,  that's  not  for  you 
to  judge.  If  I  had  acted  in  that  way  when  I 
was  young  I  should  never  have  filled  the  position 
I  now  hold.  I  always  remembered  in  those  days 
that  as  I  Avas  the  hand  and  not  the  head,  I  was 
bound  to  hold  myself  in  readiness  whether  work 
might  be  required  from  me  or  not." 

"If  I'm  wanted  as  hand  now.  Sir  Raffle,  I'm 
ready." 

"That's  all  very  well ;  but  why  were  you  not 
here  at  the  hour  I  named  ?" 

"Well,  Sir  Raffle,  I  can  not  say  that  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  detained  me — but 
there  was  business.  As  I've  been  here  for  the 
last  two  hours,  I  am  happy  to  think  that  in  this 
instance  the  ])ublic  service  will  not  have  suffisred 
from  my  disobedience." 

Sir  Raffle  was  still  standing  with  his  hat  on, 
and  with  his  back  to  tlie  fire,  and  his  countenance 
was  full  of  wrath.  It  was  on  his  tongue  to  tell 
Johnny  that  he  had  better  return  to  his  former 
work  in  the  outer  office.  He  greatly  wanted  the 
comfort  of  a  private  secretarj'  who  would  believe 
in  him — or  at  least  pretend  to  believe  in  him. 
There  are  men  who,  though  they  have  not  sense 
enough  to  be  true,  have  nevertheless  sense 
enough  to  know  that  they  can  not  expect  to  be 
really  believed  in  by  those  who  are  near  enough 
to  them  to  know  them.     Sir  Raffle  Buffle  was 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


171 


does  not  believe  it,  tliat  men  in  public  ofBces 
have  !:;ot  soniclhing  to  do." 

"Now  you  arc  laughing  at  me,  I  know  ;  but 
you  are  welcome,  if  you  like  it.  It's  the  way  of 
the  world  just  at  present  that  ladies  should  sub- 
mit to  that  sort  of  thing  from  gentlemen." 

"  What  sort  of  thing,  INIiss  Dcmolincs?" 

"ChatV — as  you  call  it.  Courtesy  is  out  cf 
fashion,  and  gallantry  has  come  to  signify  quite 
a  diti'crent  kind  of  thing  from  what  it  used  to 
do." 

"  The  Sir  Charles  Grandison  business  is  done 
and  gone.  That's  what  you  mean,  I  sujipose? 
Don't  you  think  we  should  find  it  very  heavy  if 
we  tried  to  get  it  back  again  ?" 

"  I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  be  a  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  Mr.  Eames.  But  never  mind  all 
that  now.  Do  you  know  that  that  girl  has  ab- 
solutely had  her  first  sitting  for  the  picture  ?"  / 

"  Has  she  indeed?" 

"She  has.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it. 
I  know  it  as  a  fact.  What  a  fool  that  young 
man  is!" 

' '  WHiich  young  man  ?" 

"Which  young  man!  Conway  Dalrymple 
to  be  sure.  Artists  are  always  weak.  Of  all 
men  in  the  world  they  arc  tlie  most  subject  to 
flattery  from  women  ;  and  wc  all  know  that 
Conway  Dalrymple  is  very  vain." 

"Upon  my  word  I  didn't  know  it,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  must  know  it.  "When 
a  man  goes  about  in  a  purple  velvet  coat  of 
course  he  is  vain." 

"  I  certainly  can  not  defend  a  purple  velvet 
coat." 

"Tiiat  is  what  he  wore  when  this  girl  sat  to 
him  this  morning." 

"This  morning  was  it?" 

"Yes;  this  morning.  They  little  think  that 
they  can  do  nothing  without  my  knowing  it. 
He  was  there  for  nearly  four  hours,  and  she  was 
dressed  up  in  a  white  robe  as  Jael,  with  a  tur- 
ban on  her  head.  Jael,  indeed  !  I  call  it  very- 
improper,  and  I  am  quite  astonished  tliat  Maria 
Clutterbuck  should  have  lent  herself  to  such 
a  piece  of  work.  That  IMaria  was  never  very 
wise  of  course  we  all  know ;  but  I  thought  that 
she  had  principle  enough  to  have  kept  her  from 
this  kind  of  thing." 

"  It's  her  fevered  existence,"  said  Johnny. 

* '  Tiiat  is  just  it.  She  must  have  excitement. 
It  is  like  dram-drinking.  And  then,  you  know, 
they  arc  always  living  in  the  crater  of  a  volca- 
no." 

"  Who  are  living  in  the  crater  of  a  volcano  ?" 

"The  Dobbs  Broughtons  are.  Of  course  they 
are.  There  is  no  saying  what  day  a  smash  may 
come.  These  City  people  get  so  used  to  it  that 
they  enjoy  it.    The  risk  is  every  thing  to  them." 

"  They  like  to  have  a  little  certainty  behind 
the  risk,  I  fancy." 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  very  little  that's  certain 
with  Dobbs  Broughton.  But  about  this  picture, 
Mr.  Eames.  I  look  to  you  to  assist  me  there. 
It  must  be  put  a  stop  to.     As  to  that  I  am  de- 


termined. It  must  be — put  a — stop  to."  And 
as  JVIiss  Dcmolincs  repeated  these  last  words  / 
with  tremendous  emphasis  she  leaned  with  both 
her  elbows  on  a  little  table  that  stood  between 
her  and  her  visitor,  and  looked  with  all  her  eyes 
into  his  face.  "  I  do  hope  that  you  agree  with 
me  in  tluit,"  said  she. 

"Upon  my  word  I  do  not  see  the  harm  of 
the  jjicture,"  said  he. 

"You  do  not?" 

"Indeed,  no.  Why  should  not  Dalrymple 
paint  Miss  Van  Siever  as  well  as  any  other 
lady  ?  It  is  his  special  business  to  paint  ladies." 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Eames — "  And  now  Miss 
Dcmolincs,  as  she  spoke,  drew  her  own  seat 
closer  to  that  of  her  companion  and  pushed 
away  the  little  table.  "Do  you  sup])ose  that 
Conway  Dalrymple,  in  the  usual  way  of  his  busi- 
ness, paints  pictures  of  young  ladies,  of  which 
their  mothers  know  nothing  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that  he  paints  them  in  ladies'  rooms  without 
their  husbands'  knowledge?  And  in  the  com- 
mon way  of  his  business  docs  he  not  expect  to 
be  paid  for  his  pictures?" 

"But  what  is  all  that  to  you  and  me.  Miss 
Demolines?" 

"Is  the  welfare  of  your  friend  nothing  to 
you?  Would  you  like  to  see  him  become  the 
victim  of  the  artifice  of  such  a  girl  as  Clara  Van 
Siever?" 

"  U])on  my  word  I  think  he  is  very  well  able 
to  take  care  of  himself." 

"And  would  you  wish  to  see  that  poor  creat- 
ure's domestic  hearth  ruined  and  broken  up?"    " 

"  Which  poor  creature?" 

"Dobbs  Broughton,  to  be  sure." 

"I  can't  pretend  that  I  care  very  much  for 
Dobbs  Broughton,"  said  John  Eames ;  "  and 
you  see  I  know  so  little  about  his  domestic 
hearth." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Eames!" 

' '  Besides,  her  princi])les  will  pull  her  through. 
You  told  me  yourself  that  Mrs.  Broughton  has 
high  principles." 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  a  Avord  against 
Maria  Clutterbuck!"  said  Miss  Demolines,  fer- 
vently. "  ]\Iaria  Clutterbuck  was  my  early 
friend,  and  though  words  have  been  spoken 
which  never  should  have  been  spoken,  and 
though  things  have  been  done  which  never 
should  have  been  even  dreamed  of,  still  I  will 
not  desert  Maria  Clutterbuck  in  her  hour  of 
need.     No,  never!" 

"I'm  sure  you're  v/hat  one  may  call  a  trump 
to  your  friends.  Miss  Demolines." 

"I  have  always  endeavored  to  be  so,  and  al- 
ways shall.  You  will  find  me  so — that  is  if 
you  and  I  ever  become  intimate  enough  to  feel 
that  sort  of  friendship." 

"Tliere's  nothing  on  earth  I  should  like  bet- 
ter," said  Johnny.  As  soon  as  the  words  were 
out  of  his  mouth  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  knew  that  he  did  not  in  truth  desire  the 
friendship  of  Miss  Demolines,  and  that  any 
friendship  with  such  a  one  would  mean  some- 
thing different  from  friendship — something  that 


172 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


would  be  an  injury  to  Lily  Dale.  A  week  had 
hardly  j)asscd  since  he  had  sworn  a  life's  con- 
stancy to  Lily  Dale — liad  sworn  it,  not  to  her 
only,  but  to  himself;  and  now  he  was  giving 
way  to  a  flirtation  witli  this  woman,  not  because 
he  lilted  it  himself,  but  because  he  was  too  weak 
to  keep  out  of  it. 

"If  that  is  true — "  said  IMiss  Demolincs. 
"  Oh  yes  ;  it's  quite  true,"  said  Jolinny. 
"Tlien  you  must  earn  my  friendship  by  do- 
ing what  I  ask  of  you.  Tiiat  jdcture  must  not 
be  jiainted.  You  must  tell  Conway  Dalrymjjle 
as  his  friend  that  he  must  cease  to  carry  on  such 
an  intrigue  in  another  man's  house." 

"You  would  hardly  call  painting  a  jiicturc 
an  intrigue;  would  you?" 

"  Certainly  I  would  when  it's  kept  a  secret 
from  tlie  husbnnd  by  the  wife — and  from  tlie 
mother  by  the  dauglilcr.  If  it  can  not  be  stojiped 
in  any  other  way  I  must  tell  IMrs.  Van  Sievcr 
— I  must  indeed.  I  have  such  an  abhorrence 
of  the  old  woman  that  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  speak  to  her — but  I  should  ^\rite  to  her. 
That's  wliat  I  should  do." 

"  But  what's  the  reason  ?  You  might  as  well 
tell  me  the  real  reason."  Had  Miss  Demolines 
been    christened  Mary,  or  Fanny,  or   Jane,  I 


and  for  such  purposes !  I  wouldn't  have  believeij 
it  of  Maria  Clutterbuck.  I  wouldn't  indeed. 
However,  I  will  never  say  a  word  against  her, 
because  she  has  been  my  friend.  Kothing  siiall 
ever  induce  nie." 

John  Fames  before  he  left  rorchcster  Ter- 
race had  at  last  succeeded  in  calling  his  fair 
friend  Madalina,  and  had  promised  that  he 
would  endeavor  to  open  the  artist's  eyes  to  the 
folly  of  painting  his  i)ictnrc  in  Broughton's  house 
without  Broughton's  knowledge. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

JIR.  TOOGOOD's    ideas    AHOUT    60C1FTY. 

A  PAY  or  two  after  the  interview  which  was 
described  in  the  last  chajjter  John  Fames  dined 
Ivith  his  uncle  Mr.  Tliomas  Toogood,  in  Tavis- 
tock Square.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  this 
about  once  a  month,  and  was  a  great  favorite 
both  with  his  cousins  and  with  tlieir  mother. 
Mr.  Toogood  did  not  give  dinner-parties ;  al- 
ways begging  those  whom  he  asked  to  enjoy  liis 
hosj)itality  to  take  pot-luck,  and  telling  young 


men  whom  he  could  treat  with  familiarity — such 
think  that  John  Fames  would  now  have  called  ^as  his  nephew — that  if  they  wanted  to  be  regaled 
her  by  either  of  those  names;  but  Madalina j'a  la  Russe  they  must  not  come  to  number  75 
was  such  a  mouthful  that  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  use  it  at  once.  He  had  lieard  that 
among  her  intimates  she  was  called  INIaddy. 
He  had  an  idea  that  he  had  heard  Dalrymple 
in  old  times  talk  of  lier  as  Maddy  Mullins,  and 
just  at  this  moment  the  idea  was  not  pleasant 
to  him  ;  at  any  rate  he  could  not  call  li£r  Mad- 
dy as  yet.  "  How  nm  I  to  liclp  you,"  he  said, 
"unless  I  know  all  about  it?" 

"I  hate  that  girl  like  ])oison!"  said  jNIiss 
Demolines,  confidentially,  <lrawing  herself  very 
near  to  Johnny  as  she  spol;e. 

"But  what  has  she  done?" 

"What  has  she  done?  I  can't  tell  you  what 
she  has  done.  I  could  not  demean  myself  by- 
repeating  it 


Tavistock  Square.  "  A  leg  of  mutton  and  trim- 
mings; that  will  be  about  the  outside  of  it," 
he  would  siiy ;  but  he  would  add  in  a  whis])er 
— "and  a  glass  of  port  such  as  you  don't  get 
every  day  of  your  life."  Folly  and  Lucy  Too- 
/good  were  pretty  girls,  and  merry  withal,  and 
certain  young  men  were  well  contented  to  ac- 
cept tlie  attorney's  invitations — whether  attract- 
ed by  the  promised  leg  of  mutton,  or  the  port- 
wine,  or  the  young  ladies,  I  will  not  attemjit  to 
say.  But  it  had  so  happened  that  one  young 
man,  a  clerk  from  John  Fames's  office,  had  ])ar- 
taken  so  often  of  the  pot-luck  and  jioi't-wine 
tliat  Polly  Toogood  had  conquered  him  by  her 
chai'ms,  and  he  was  now  a  slave,  waiting  an 


Of  course  we  all  know  wiiat  she  appropriate  time  for  matrimonial  sacrifice.  Will- 
wants.  She  wants  to  catch  Conway  Dalrymple.  nam  Summerkin  was  the  young  man's  nam.o  ; 
That's  as  plain  as  any  thing  can  be.  Not  that  and  as  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Summerkin  was 
I  care  about  that."  to  inlierit  a  fortune  amounting  to  five  thousand 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Johnny.  pounds  from  his  maiden  aunt,  it  was  considered 

"Not  in  the  least.  It's  nothing  to  me.  I  that  Polly  Toogood  was  not  doing  amiss.  "I'll 
have  known  Mv.  Dalrymple  no  doubt,  for  a  year  give  you  tiii-ee  hundred  pounds,  my  boy,  just  to 
or  two,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  a  young  [  put  a  few  sheets  on  the  beds,"  said  Toogood  the 


man  who  has  his  good  points  sacrificed  in  that 
sort  of  way.  But  it  is  mere  acquaintance  be- 
tween Mr.  Dalrymple  and  me,  and  of  course  I 
can  not  interfere." 

"  She'll  have  a  lot  of  money,  you  know." 

"  He  tiiinks  so ;  does  he  ?  I  suppose  that  is 
what  Maria  has  told  him.  Oh,  Mr.  Eames, 
you  don't  know  the  meanness  of  women ;  you 
don't  indeed.     Men  are  so  much  more  noble." 

"  Are  they,  do  you  think  ?" 

"Than  some  women.     I  see  women  doing 


father,  "and  wlien  the  old  birds  are  both  dead 
slie'll  have  a  thousand  jiounds  out  of  the  nest. 
That's  the  extent  of  Polly's  fortune — so  now  you 
know."  Summerkin  was,  however,  quite  con- 
tented to  have  his  own  money  settled  on  his 
darling  Polly,  and  the  whole  thing  was  looked 
at  with  pleasant  and  jiropitious  eyes  l)y  the  Too- 
good  connection. 

When  John  Eames  entered  the  drawing-room 
Summerkin  and  Polly  were  already  there. 
Summerkin  blushed  up  to  his  eyes,  of  course, 


things  that  really  disgust  me ;  I  do  indeed —  ,  but  Polly  s.at  as  demurely  as  though  she  had 
things  that  I  woiddn't  do  myself  were  it  ever  so  been  accustomed  to  having  lovers  all  her  life. 
^-striving  to  catch  men  in  every  possible  way,  ;  "Mamnia  will  bo  down  almost  immediately, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


173 


Jolin,"  said  Polly,  as  soon  as  the  first  greetings 
were  over,  "and  papa  has  come  in,  I  know." 

"  Suninierkin,"  said  Johnny,  "  I'm  afraid  you 
left  tlic  olHcc  before  four  o'clock." 

"No,  I  did  not,"  said  Sunimerkin.  "I 
deny  it." 

"Polly,"  said  her  cousin,  "you  should  keep 
liim  in  better  order.  lie  will  certainly  conic  to 
grief  if  he  goes  on  like  this.  I  suppose  you  could 
do  without  him  for  half  an  hour." 

"I  don't  want  him,  I  can  assure  you,"  said 
Polly. 

"I  have  only  been  here  just  five  minutes," 
said  Sunimerkin,  "and  I  came  because  Mrs. 
Toogood  asked  me  to  do  a  commission." 

"That's  civil  to  you,  Polly,"  said  John. 

"It's  quite  as  civil  as  I  wish  him  to  be,"  said 
Polly.  "And  as  for  you,  John,  every  body 
knows  that  you're  a  goose,  and  that  you  always 
were  a  goose.  Isn't  he  always  doing  foolish 
things  at  the  office,  William?"  But  as  John 
Eames  was  rather  a  great  man  at  the  Income- 
tax  Oilice,  Sunimerkin  would  not  fall  into  his 
sweet-heart's  joke  on  this  subject,  finding  it  easier 
and  perhaps  safer  to  twiddle  the  bodkins  in 
Polly's  work-basket.  Then  Toogood  and  Mrs. 
Toogood  entered  the  room  together,  and  tlie 
lovers  were  able  to  be  alone  again  during  tlie 
general  greeting  with  which  Johnny  was  wel- 
comed. 

"You  don't  know  the  Silvcrbridgc  people — 
do  you  ?"  asked  Mr.  Toogood.  Eames  said  that 
he  did  not.  He  had  been  at  Silverbridge  more 
than  once,  but  did  not  know  very  much  of  the 
Silverbridgiaus.  "Because  Walker  is  coming 
to  dine  here.  Walker  is  the  leading  man  in^, 
Silverbridge." 

"  And  what  is  Walker — besides  being  leading 
man  in  Silverbridge?" 

"  He's  a  lawyer.  Walker  and  ^A'inthrop. 
Every  body  knows  Walker  in  Barsetshire.  I've 
been  down  at  Barchester  since  I  saw  you." 

"Have  you  indeed?"  said  Johnny. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  been  about.  You 
know  Mr.  Crawley,  don't  you  ?" 

"The  Ilogglestock  clergyman  that  has  come 
to  grief?  I  don't  know  him  personally.  He's 
a  sort  of  cousin  by  marriage,  yon  know." 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Toogood.  "  Ilis 
wife  is  my  first-cousin  and  your  mother's  first- 
cousin.  He  came  here  to  me  the  other  day — 
or  rather  to  the  shop.  I  had  never  seen  the 
man  before  in  my  life,  and  a  very  queer  fellow 
he  is  too.  He  came  to  me  about  this  trouble  of 
his,  and  of  course  I  must  do  what  I  can  for  him. 
I  got  myself  introduced  to  Walker,  who  has  the 
management  of  the  prosecution,  and  I  asked  him 
to  come  here  and  dine  to-day. " 

"  And  what  sort  of  fellow  did  you  find  Craw- 
ley, uncle  Tom  ?" 

"  Such  a  queer  fish — so  unlike  any  body  else 
in  the  world !" 

"  But  I  suppose  he  did  take  tlie  money  ?"  said 
Johnny. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  it.  I  don't 
indeed.     If  he  took  it  he  didn't  mean  to  steal 


it.  I'm  as  sure  that  man  didn't  mean  to  steal 
twenty  jiounds  as  I  ever  could  be  of  any  thing. 
Perliaps  I  shall  get  something  about  it  out  of 
Walker  after  dinner."  Then  Mr.  Walker  en- 
tered  the  room.  "This  is  very  kind  of  you, 
Mr.  Walker  ;  very  indeed.  I  take  it  quite  as  a 
compliment,  your  coming  in  in  tiiis  sort  of  way. 
It's  just  pot-luck,  you  know,  and  nothing  else.". 
Mr.  Walker  of  course  assured  his  host  that  he 
was  delighted.  "Just  a  leg  of  mutton  and  a 
bottle  of  old  port,  Mr.  Walker,"  continued  Too- 
good.  "  Wo  never  get  beyond  that  in  the  way 
of  dinner-giving ;  do  we,  Maria  ?" 

But  Maria  was  at  this  moment  descanting  on 
the  good  luck  of  the  family  to  her  nephew — and 
on  one  special  piece  of  good  luck  which  had  just 
occurred.  Air.  Summerkin's  maiden  aunt  had 
declared  her  intention  of  giving  up  the  fortune 
to  the  young  people  at  once.  She  had  enough 
to  live  upon,  she  said,  and  would  therefore  make 
two  lovers  happ3^  "And  they're  to  be  married 
on  the  first  of  May,"  said  Lucy — that  Lucy  of 
whom  her  fiithcr  had  boasted  to  Mr.  Crawley  that 
she  knew  Byron  by  heart — "and  won't  that  be 
jolly  ?  Mamma  is  going  out  to  look  for  a  house 
for  them  to-morrow.  Fancy  Polly  with  a  house 
of  her  own !  AVon't  it  be  stunning  ?  I  wish 
you  were  going  to  be  married  too,  Johnny." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Lucy." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that  you  are  in  love.  I 
hope  you  are  not  going  to  give  over  being  in 
love,  Johnny,  because  it  is  such  fun." 

"Wait  till  you're  caught  yourself,  my  girl." 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  caught  till  some  great 
swell  comes  this  way.  And  as  great  swells 
never  do  come  into  Tavistock  Square  I  sha'n't 
have  a  chance.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  like ; 
I'd  like  to  have  a  Corsair — or  else  a  Giaour — I 
think  a  Giaour  would  be  nicest.  Only  a  Giaour 
wouldn't  be  a  Giaour  here,  you  know.  Fancy 
a  lover  'Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest 
steed,  with  slackened  bit  and  hoof  of  speed!' 
Were  not  those  the  days  to  live  in !  But  all 
that  is  over  now,  you  know,  and  young  people 
take  houses  in  Woburn  Place,  instead  of  being 
locked  up,  or  drowned,  or  married  to  a  hideous 
monster  behind  a  veil.  I  suppose  it's  better  as 
it  is,  for  some  reasons." 

"I  think  it  must  be  more  jolly,  as  you  call 
it,  Luc}-." 

"I'm  not  quite  sure.  I  know  I'd  go  back 
and  be  Medora,  if  I  could.  Mamma  is  always 
telling  Polly  that  she  must  be  careful  about 
William's  dinner.  But  Conrad  didn't  care  for 
his  dinner.  '  Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy 
frugal  fare !  Sec,  I  have  jjlucked  the  fruit  tlmt 
promised  best.' " 

"And  how  often  do  you  think  Conrad  got 
drunk  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  lie  got  drunk  at  all.  There  is 
no  reason  why  he  should,  any  more  than  Will- 
iam. Come  along,  and  take  me  down  to  din- 
ner. After  all,  papa's  leg  of  mutton  is  better 
than  Medora's  apples  when  one  is  as  hungry  as 
lain." 

The  log  of  mutton  on  this  occasion  consisted 


»74 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


of  soup,  fisli,  nnJ  a  bit  of  roast  beef,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  boiled  fowls.  "If  I  had  only  two  chil- 
dren instead  of  twelve,  Mr.  Walker,"  said  the 
host,  "  I'd  give  you  a  dinner  ;i  la  Russc." 

"I  don't  begrudge  Mrs.  Toogood  a  single 
arrow  iu  lier  quiver  on  that  score,"  said  Mr. 
Walker. 

"I'eojile  arc  getting  to  be  so  luxurious  that 
one  can't  live  up  to  them  at  all,"  saiil  Mrs. 
Toogood.  "  We  dined  out  here  with  some  new- 
comers in  the  square  ^nly  last  week.  AVc  had 
asked  tiiem  before,  and  they  came  quite  in  a 
quiet  way — ^just  like  this ;  and  when  we  got 
:liere  wo  found  they'd  four  kinds  of  ices  after 
dinner!" 

"And  not  a  morsel  of  food  on  the  table  fit 
to  eat,"  said  Toogood.  "I  never  was  so  jwis- 
oned  in  my  life.  As  for  soup— it  was  just  the 
washings  of  the  pastry-cook's  kettle  next  door." 

"And  how  is  one  to  live  with  such  people, 
Mr.  Walker?"  continued  Mrs.  Toogood.  "Of 
course  we  can't  ask  them  back  again.  We  can't 
give  them  four  kinds  of  ices." 

"But  w-ould  that  be  necessary?  Perhaps 
they  haven't  got  twelve  children." 

"They  haven't  got  any,"  said  Toogood,  tri- 
umphing; "not  a  chick  belonging  to  them. 
But  you  sec  one  must  do  as  other  people  do.  I 
hate  any  thing  grand.  I  wouldn't  want  mora 
than  this  for  myself  if  bank-notes  were  as  plen- 
ty as  curl-papers." 

"Nobody  has  any  curl-papers  now,  papa," 
said  Lucy. 

"But  I  can't  bear  to  be  outdone,"  said  Mr. 
Toogood.  "I  think  it's  very  unpleasant — i)eo- 
ple  living  in  that  sort  of  way.  It's  all  verj'  well 
telling  n)e  that  I  needn't  live  so  too — and  of 
course  I  don't.  I  can't  afford  to  have  four  men 
in  from  the  confectioner's,  dressed  a  sight  bet- 
ter than  myself,  at  ten  shillings  a  head.  I  can't 
afford  it,  and  I  don't  do  it.  But  the  worst  of  it 
is  that  I  suffer  because  other  people  do  it.  It 
stands  to  reason  that  I  must  cither  bo  driven 
along  with  the  crowd  or  else  be  left  behind. 
Now  I  don't  like  either.  And  what's  the  end 
of  it?  Why,  I'm  half  carried  away  and  half 
left  behind." 

"  Upon  my  word,  papa,  I  don't  think  you're 
carried  away  at  all,"  said  Lucy. 

"Yes,  I  am;  and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself. 
Mr.  Walker,  I  don't  dare  to  ask  you  to  drink  a 
glass  of  wine  with  me  in  my  own  house — that's 
what  I  don't — because  it's  the  proper  thing  for 
you  to  wait  till  somebod}'  brings  it  you,  and 
then  to  drink  it  by  yourself.  There  is  no  know- 
ing whether  I  mightn't  offend  you."  And  Mr. 
Toogood  as  he  spoke  grasped  the  decanter  at 
his  elbow.  Mr.  Walker  grasped  another  at  bis 
3lbow,  and  the  two  attorneys  took  their  glass  of 
wine  together. 

"A  very  queer  case  this  is  of  my  cousin 
Crawley's,"  said  Toogood  to  Walker,  when  the 
I    ladies  had  left  the  dining-room. 

"A  most  distressing  case.  I  never  knew  any 
'ihing  so  much  talked  of  in  our  j)art  of  the  coun- 
try." 


"  lie  can't  have  been  a  popular  man,  I  should 
say." 

"No;  not  popular — not  in  the  ordinary  way 
— any  tiling  but  that.  Nobody  knew  him  per- 
sonally before  this  matter  came  u]i." 

"But  a  good  clergyman,  probably?  I'm  in- 
terested in  the  case,  of  course,  as  his  wife  is  my 
first-cousin.  You  will  understand,  however, 
that  I  know  nothing  of  him.  My  father  tried 
to  be  civil  to  him  once,  but  Crawley  wouldn't 
have  it  at  all.  We  all  thought  he  was  mad 
then.  I  sujipose  he  has  done  his  duty  in  his 
parish  ?" 

"  He  has  quarreled  with  the  bishop,  you  know 
— out  and  out." 

"Has  he,  indeed?  But  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
think  so  very  much  about  bishops,  Mr.  Walker." 

"  That  depends  very  nuich  on  the  particular 
bishop.  Some  ])eoi)le  say  ours  isn't  all  that  a 
bisho])  ought  to  be,  while  others  arc  very  fond 
of  him." 

"And  Mr.  Crawley  belongs  to  the  former  set 
— that's  all  ?"  said  Mr.  Toogood. 

"  No,  Mr.  Toogood,  that  isn't  all.  The  worst 
of  your  cousin  is  that  he  has  an  aptitude  to 
quarrel  with  every  body.  He  is  one  of  tliose 
men  who  always  think  themselves  to  be  ill-used. 
Now  our  dean.  Dr.  Arabin,  has  been  his  very 
old  friend,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  a  very 
good  friend ;  but  it  seems  that  Mr.  Crawley  has 
done  his  best  to  quarrel  with  him  too." 

"  He  spoke  of  the  dean  in  the  highest  terms 
to  me." 

"  He  may  do  that — and  yet  quarrel  with  him. 
He'd  quarrel  with  his  own  right  hand,  if  he'd 
nothing  else  to  quarrel  with.  That  makes  the 
difficulty,  you  see.  He'll  take  nobody's  ad- 
vice.    He  thinks  that  we're  all  against  him." 

"I  supi)ose  the  world  has  been  heavy  on  him, 
Mr.  W.alkcr?" 

"The  woild  has  been  very  heavy  on  him,'" 
said  John  Eames,  who  had  now  been  left  freu 
to  join  the  conversation,  Mr.  Summerkin  havin,>y 
gone  away  to  his  lady-love.  "You  must  not. 
judge  him  as  you  do  other  men." 

"That  is  just  it,"  said  Mr.  Walker.  "  AnJ 
to  what  result  will  that  bring  us?" 

"That  we  ought  to  stretch  a  point  in  his  fa-, 
vor,"  said  Toogood. 

"But  why?"  asked  the  attorney  from  Silver- 
bridge.  "What  do  w^e  mean  when  we  say  that 
one  man  isn't  to  be  trusted  as  another?  We 
simply  imply  that  he  is  not  what  we  call  respons- 
ible." 

"And  I  don't  think  Jlr.  Crawley  is  responsi- 
ble," said  Johnny. 

"  Then  how  can  he  be  fit  to  have  charge  of  a 
parish?"  said  Mr.  Walker.  "You  see  where 
the  difficulty  is.  How  it  embarrasses  one  all 
round.  The  amount  of  evidence  as  to  the  check 
is,  I  tliink,  sufficient  to  get  a  verdict  in  an  or- 
dinary case,  and  the  Crown  has  no  alternative 
but  so  to  treat  it.  Then  his  friends  come  for- 
ward— and  from  sympathy  with  his  sufferings 
I  desire  to  be  ranked  among  the  number — and 
say,  '  Ah !  but  you  should  spare  this  man,  be- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


17; 


cause  he  is  not  responsible.'  Were  he  one  who 
filled  no  jtoiition  requiring  special  rcsi)onsil)i]ity 
that  niiglit  be  very  well.  His  friends  might  un- 
dertake to  look  after  him,  and  the  prosecution 
might  perhaps  be  smotliered.  But  Mr.  Crawley 
holds  a  living,  and  if  he  escape  he  will  be  tri- 
umphant— especially  triumjihant  over  the  bish- 
op. Now,  if  he  has  really  taken  this  money, 
and  if  his  only  excuse  be  that  he  did  not  know 
when  he  took  it  whether  he  was  stealing  or 
whether  he  was  not — for  the  sake  of  justice  that 
ouglit  not  to  be  allowed."    So  spoke  Mr.  Walker. 

''You  think  he  certainly  did  steal  the  mon- 
ev?"  said  Johnny. 

"You  have  heard  the  evidence,  no  doubt?" 
said  Mr.  Walker. 

"I  don't  feel  quite  sure  about  it  j'et,"  said 
Mr.  Toogood. 

"Quite  sure  of  what?"  said  JNIr.  Walker. 

"  That  the  check  was  dropped  in  his  house." 

"It  was  at  any  rate  traced  to  his  hands." 

"I  have  no  doubt  about  that,"  said  Toogood. 

"And  he  can't  account  for  it,"  said  Walker. 

"A  man  isn't  bound  to  show  where  he  got 
his  money,"  said  Johnny.  "Suppose  that  sov- 
ereign is  marked" — and  Johnny  produced  a  coin 
from  his  pocket — "and  I  don't  know  but  what 
it  is ;  and  suppose  it  is  proved  to  have  belonged 
to  some  one  who  lost  it,  and  then  to  be  traced 
to  my  hands — how  am  I  to  say  where  I  got  it  ? 
If  I  were  asked  I  should  simply  decline  to  an- 
swer." 

"  But  a  check  is  not  a  sovereign,  Mr.  Eames," 
said  Walker.  "It  is  presumed  that  a  man  can 
account  for  the  possession  of  a  check.  It  may 
be  that  a  man  should  have  a  check  in  his  pos- 
session and  not  be  able  to  account  for  it,  and 
should  yet  be  open  to  no  grave  suspicion.  In 
'  such  a  case  a  jury  has  to  judge.  Here  is  the 
fact :  that  Mr.  Crawley  has  the  check,  and  brings 
I  it  into  use  some  considerable  time  after  it  is 
drawn  ;  and  the  additional  fact  that  the  drawer 
of  the  check  had  lost  it,  as  he  thought,  in  Mr. 
Crawley's  house,  and  had  looked  for  it  there, 
soon  after  it  was  drawn,  and  long  before  it  was 
paid.  A  jury  must  judge;  but,  as  a  lawyer,  I 
should  say  that  the  burden  of  disproof  lies  with 
Mr.  Crawley." 

"Did  you  find  out  any  thing,  Mr.  Walker," 
said  Toogood,  "about  the  man  who  drove  Mr. 
Soames  that  day?" 

"  No — nothing." 

"The  trap  was  from  'The  Dragon'  at  Bar- 
chester,  I  think?" 

"Yes— from  'The  Dragon  of  Wantly.'" 

"  A  respectable  sort  of  house  ?" 

"Pretty  well  for  that,  I  believe.  I've  heard 
that  the  people  are  poor,"  said  Jlr.  Walker. 

"Somebody  told  me  that  they'd  had  a  queer 
lot  about  the  house,  and  that  three  or  four  of 
them  left  just  then.  I  think  I  heard  that  two 
or  three  men  from  the  place  went  to  New  Zea- 
land together.  It  just  came  out  in  conversation' 
while  I  was  in  the  inn-yard." 

"I  have  never  heard  any  thing  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Walker. 


"I  don't  say  that  it  can  help  us." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  can,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

After  that  there  was  a  pause,  and  Mr.  Too- 
good  pushed  about  the  old  port,  and  made  some 
very  stinging  remarks  as  to  the  claret-drinking 
propensities  of  the  age.  "  Gladstone  claret  the 
most  of  it  is,  I  fancy,"  said  Mr.  Toogood.  "I 
find  that  port-wine  which  my  father  bought  in 
the  wood  five-and-twenty  years  ago  is  good 
enough  for  me."  Mr.  Walker  said  that  it  was 
quite  good  enough  for  him,  almost  too  good,  and 
that  he  thought  that  he  had  had  enough  of  it. 
The  host  threatened  another  bottle,  and  was  up 
to  draw  the  cork — rather  to  the  satisfaction  of 
John  Eames,  who  liked  his  uncle's  port — but 
Mr.  Walker  stopped  him.  "Not  a  drop  more 
for  me,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite  sure?" 
"Quite  sure."  And  Mr.  Walker  moved  to- 
ward the  door. 

"It's  a  great  pity,  Mr.  Walker,"  said  Too- 
good,  going  back  to  the  old  subject,  "that  this 
dean  and  his  wife  should  be  away." 

"I  understand  that  they  will  both  be  home 
before  the  trial,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

"Yes — but  you  know  how  very  important  it 
is  to  learn  beforehand  exactly  what  yoiu-  wit- 
nesses can  prove  and  what  they  can't  prove. 
And  moreover,  though  neither  the  dean  nor  his 
wife  might  perhaps  be  able  to  tell  us  any  thing 
themselves,  they  might  help  to  put  us  on  the 
proper  scent.  I  think  I'll  send  somebody  after 
them.     I  tliiidi  I  will." 

"  It  would  be  a  heavy  expense,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"Yes,"  said  Toogood,  mournfully,  tliinking 
of  the  twelve  children;  "it  would  be  a  heavy 
expense.  Bat  I  never  like  to  stick  at  a  thing 
when  it  ought  to  be  done.  I  think  I  shall  send 
a  fellow  after  them." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Johnny. 

"How  can  you  go ?" 

"  111  make  old  Snuffle  give  me  leave." 

"  But  will  that  lessen  the  expense  ?"  said  Mr. 
Walker. 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  it  will," said  John,  mod- 
estl}'. 

"Sly  nephew  is  a  rich  man,  Mr.  Walker," 
said  Toogood. 

"That  alters  the  case,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 
And  thus,  before  they  left  the  dining-room,  it 
was  settled  that  John  Eames  should  be  taught 
his  lesson  and  should  seek  both  Mrs.  Arabia  and 
Dr.  Arabin  on  their  travels. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

GRACE    CRAWLEY    AT    HOME. 

Ox  the  morning  after  his  return  from  London 
Mr.  Crawley  showed  symptoms  of  great  fatigue, 
and  his  wife  implored  him  to  remain  in  bed. 
But  this  he  would  not  do.  He  would  get  up 
and  go  out  down  to  the  brick-fields.  He  had 
specially  bound  himself,  he  said,  to  see  that  the 
duties  of  the  parish  did  not  sufi'cr  by  being  left 
in  his  hands.  The  bishop  had  endeavored  to 
place  them  in  other  hands,  but  he  had  persisted 


i:g 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


in  vetaining  tliem.  As  he  had  clone  so  he  could 
allow  no  weariness  of  his  own  to  interfere — and 
especially  no  weariness  induced  by  labors  un- 
dertaken on  his  own  behalf.  The  day  in  the 
week  had  come  round  on  which  it  was  his  wont 
to  visit  the  bricknnikers,  and  he  would  visit 
them.  ?o  he  drajrged  himself  out  of  his  bed 
and  went  forth  amidst  tlie  cold  storm  of  a  harsh 
wet  Marcli  morning.  His  wife  well  knew  when 
she  heard  his  lirst  word  on  that  morning  tliat 
one  of  tliosc  terrible  moods  liad  come  upon  him 
which  made  her  doubt  whether  she  ought  to  al- 
low him  to  go  any  whore  alone.  Latterly  there 
had  been  some  imjirovement  in  his  mental  health. 
Since  the  day  of  his  encounter  with  tlic  bishop 
and  Mrs.  Proudic,  though  lie  had  been  as  stub- 
liorn  as  ever,  he  had  been  less  apparently  un- 
hai)i)y,  less  dejiresscd  in  spirits.  And  the 
journey  to  London  had  done  him  pood.  His 
wife  had  congratulated  herself  on  finding  him 
able  to  set  about  his  work  like  another  man,  and 
l:c.  liimself  had  experienced  a  renewal,  if  not  of 
hope,  at  any  rate,  of  courage,  which  had  given 
I'.im  a  comfort  whicli  he  had  recognized.  His 
common-sense  had  not  been  very  striking  in  his 
interview  with  Mr.  Toogood,  butyet  he  had  talk- 
ed more  rationally  then  and  had  given  a  better 
account  of  the  matter  in  hand  tlian  could  have 
been  expected  from  him  for  some  weeks  pre- 
viously. But  now  that  the  labor  was  over  a 
reaction  had  come  upon  him,  and  he  went  away 
from  his  house  having  hardly  S])okcn  a  word  to 
his  wife  after  tlie  speech  whicli  he  made  about 
Ills  duty  to  liis  jiarisli. 

I  think  that  at  this  time  nobody  saw  clearly 
the  working  of  liis  mind — not  even  his  wife,  who 
studied  it  very  closely,  who  gave  him  credit  for 
all  his  high  qualities,  and  who  had  gradually 
learned  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  she  must 
distrust  his  judgment  in  many  tilings.  She 
knew  that  he  was  good  and  yet  weak ;  that  he 
was  afflicted  by  false  pride  and  supported  by  true 
pride  ;  that  his  intellect  was  still  very  bright,  yet 
so  dismally  obscured  on  many  sides  as  almost  to 
justify  pco])le  in  saying  that  lie  was  mad.  She 
knew  tliat  he  was  almost  a  saint,  and  yet  almost 
a  castaway  through  vanity  and  hatred  of  those 
above  him.  But  she  did  not  know  that  he  knew 
all  this  of  himself  also.  She  did  not  compre- 
hend that  he  sliould  be  hourly  telling  himself 
tliat  people  wore  calling  him  mad,  and  were  so 
calling  him  with  truth.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  he  could  see  her  insight  into  him.  She 
doubted  as  to  the  way  in  wliich  he  had  got  the 
check — never  imagining,  however,  tliat  he  had 
willfully  stolen  it ;  thinking  that  his  mind  had 
been  so  much  astray  as  to  admit  of  his  finding 
it  and  using  it  without  willful  guilt — thinking 
also,  alas !  that  a  man  who  could  so  act  was 
hardly  fit  for  such  duties  as  those  \vliich  were 
intrusted  to  him.  But  she  did  not  dream  that 
this  was  precisely  his  own  idea  of  his  own  state 
and  of  his  own  position  ;  that  he  was  always  in- 
quiring of  himself  wliether  he  was  not  mad ; 
whether,  if  mad,  he  was  not  boiind  to  lay  down 
his  ofBce  ;  that  he  was  ever  taxing  himself  with 


improper  hostility  to  the  bishop — never  forgetting 
I'or  a  moment  his  wrath  against  the  bishop  and 
the  bisIio])'s  wife,  still  comforting  himself  with 
his  triumph  over  the  bisho])  and  the  bishop's 
wife — but  for  all  that  accusing  himself  of  a 
heavy  sin,  and  ])ro])osing  to  himself  to  go  to  the  j 
palace  and  there  humblj^  to  relinquish  his  cler- 
ical authority.  Such  a  course  of  action  he  Avas 
proposing  to  himself,  but  not  with  any  realized 
idea  that  he  would  so  act.  He  was  as  a  man 
who  walks  along  a  river's  bank  thinking  of  sui- 
cide, calculating  how  best  he  might  kill  himself 
— whether  the  river  docs  not  oiler  an  o]iportunity 
too  good  to  be  neglected,  telling  himself  that  for 
many  reasons  he  had  better  do  so,  suggesting  to 
himself  that  the  water  is  jdeasant  and  cool,  and 
that  iiis  ears  would  soon  be  deaf  to  the  harsh 
noises  of  the  world — but  3  et  knowing,  or  think- 
ing that  he  knows,  that  he  never  will  kill  him- 
self. So  it  was  with  Mr.  Crawley.  Though 
his  imagination  ])ictured  to  himself  the  whole 
scene — how  he  would  humble  himself  to  the 
ground  as  he  acknowledged  his  unfitness,  how 
ho  would  endure  the  small-voiced  triumph  of  the 
little  bishoj),  how,  from  the  abjectncss  of  his  own 
humility,  even  from  the  ground  on  which  he 
would  be  crouching,  he  would  rebuke  the  loud- 
mouthed triumjih  of  the  bishoji's  wife;  though 
there  was  no  touch  Avanting  to  the  picture  which 
he  tlius  drew,  he  did  not  really  propose  to  him- 
self to  commit  this  professional  suicide.  His 
wife,  too,  had  considered  whether  it  might  be  in 
trutli  becoming  that  he  should  give  up  his  cler- 
ical duties,  at  any  rate  for  a  while ;  but  she  had 
never  thought  that  the  idea  was  ]>resent  to  his 
mind  also. ' 

Mr.  Toogood  had  told  him  that  ])eo])le  would 
say  that  he  was  mad  ;  and  Mr.  Toogood  had 
looked  at  him,  when  he  declared  for  the  second 
time  that  he  had  no  knowledge  whence  the  check 
had  come  to  him,  as  though  his  Avords  were  to 
be  regarded  as  the  words  of  some  sick  child. 
"INIad!"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home 
from  the  station  that  night.  "Well;  yes;  and 
what  if  I  am  mad  ?  When  I  think  of  all  that 
I  have  endured  my  wonder  is  that  I  should  not 
have  been  mad  sooner."  And  then  he  j)rayed 
— yes,  prayed,  that  in  h'is  madness  the  Devil 
might  not  be  too  strong  for  him,  and  that  he 
might  be  preserved  from  some  terrible  sin  of 
murder  or  violence.  What  if  tiie  idea  sliould 
come  to  him  in  his  madness  tliat  it  would  be 
well  for  him  to  slay  his  wife  and  his  children  ? 
Only  that  was  M-anting  to  make  him  of  all  men 
the  most  unfortunate. 

He  went  down  among  the  brickmakers  on  the 
following  morning,  leaving  the  house  almost 
!  without  a  morsel  of  food,  and  he  remained  at 
Hoggle  End  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day. 
Tliere  were  sick  persons  there  with  whom  he 
prayed,  and  then  he  sat  talking  with  rough  men 
while  they  ate  their  dinners,  and  he  read  pas- 
sages from  the  Bible  to  women  while  they  washed 
their  husbands'  clothes.  And  for  a  while  he 
sat  with  a  little  girl  in  his  lap  teaching  the  child 
her  alphabet.     If  it  were  possible  for  him  he 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


177 


woulJ  do  his  duty.  He  •would  spare  himself  in 
nothing,  though  he  might  suffer  even  to  faint- 
in"'.  And  on  this  occasion  he  did  suffer — al- 
most to  fainting ;  for  as  he  returned  home  in  the 
afternoon  he  was  forced  to  lean  from  time  to 
time  against  the  banks  on  tlie  road-side,  while 
tlic  cold  sweat  of  weakness  trickled  down  his 
face  in  order  that  he  mi>iht  recover  strength  to 
go  on  a  few  yards.  But  he  would  persevere. 
If  God  would  but  leave  to  him  mind  cnougli  for 
his  work,  he  would  go  on.  No  personal  suffer- 
ing should  deter  him.  lie  told  himself  that 
there  had  been  men  in  the  world  whose  suffer- 
ings were  shar])cr  even  than  his  own.  Of  what 
sort  had  been  the  life  of  tlie  man  who  had  stood 
for  years  on  tlie  top  of  a  jiillar  ?  But  then  the 
man  on  the  pillar  had  been  honored  by  all 
around  him.  And  tlius,  though  he  had  thought 
of  the  man  on  the  ])illar  to  encourage  himself  by 
remembering  how  lamentable  liad  been  that 
man's  suiFering,  he  came  to  reflect  that  after  all 
his  own  sufferings  were  perhaps  keener  than 
those  of  the  man  on  the  pillar. 

AVhen  he  reached  home  he  was  very  ill» 
Tliere  was  no  doubt  about  it  tlieu.  lie  stag/ 
gered  to  his  arm-chair,  and  stared  at  his  wire 
tirst,  tlien  smiled  at  her  with  a  ghastly  smile. 
He  trembled  all  over,  and  when  food  was  brought 
to  him  he  could  not  eat  it.  Early  on  the  next 
morning  the  doctor  was  by  his  bedside,  and  be- 
fore that  evening  came  he  was  delirious.  He 
had  been  at  intervals  in  this  state  for  nearly 
two  days  when  Mrs.  Crawley  wrote  to  Grace, 
and  though  she  had  restrained  lierself  from  tell- 
ing every  thing,  she  had  written  with  sufficient 
strength  to  bring  Grace  at  once  to  her  father's 
bedside. 

He  was  not  so  ill  when  Grace  arrived  but  that , 
he  knew  her,  and  he  seemed  to  receive  some 
comfort  from  her  coming.  Before  she  liad  been 
in  the  house  an  hour  sjie  was  reading  Greek  to 
him,  and  there  was  no  wandering  in  liis  mind  as 
to  the  due  emphasis  to  be  given  to  the  jilaints  of 
the  injured  heroines,  or  as  to  the  proper  meaning 
of  the  choruses.  And  as  he  lay  with  his  head 
half  buried  in  the  pillows  he  shouted  out  long 
passages,  lines  from  tragic  plays  by  the  score, 
and  for  a  while  seemed  to  have  all  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  dear  old  pleasure  placed  newly  within 
his  reach.  But  he  tired  of  this  after  a  while, 
and  then,  having  looked  round  to  see  that  his 
^vife  was  not  in  the  room,  he  began  to  talk  of 
himself. 

"  So  you  have  been  at  Allington,  my  dear?" 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  Is  it  a  pretty  place  ?" 

"Yes,  papa — very  pretty." 

"And  they  were  good  to  you  ?" 

"Yes,  papa — very  good." 

"Had  they  heard  any  thing  there  about — 
mo ;  of  this  trial  that  is  to  come  on  ?" 

"Yes,  papa;  they  had  heard  of  it." 

"And  what  did  they  say?  You  need  not 
think  that  you  will  shock  me  by  telling  me. 
They  can  not  say  worse  there  tlian  people  liave 
said  here — or  think  worse." 


"They  don't  think  at  all  badly  of  you  at  Al- 
lington, pa])a." 

"But  they  must  think  badly  of  me  if  the 
magistrates  were  right  ?"' 

"  They  sui)posc  that  there  has  been  a  mistake 
— as  we  all  think." 

"They  do  not  try  men  at  the  assi/es  for  mis- 
takes." 

"That  you  have  been  mistaken,  I  mean — 
and  the  magistrates  mistaken." 

"Both  can  not  have  been  mistaken,  Grace." 

"  I  don't  know  liow  to  explain  myself,  papa; 
but  we  all  know  that  it  is  very  sad,  and  arc 
quite  sure  that  you  have  never  meant  for  one 
moment  to  do  any  thing  that  was  wrong." 

"  But  people  when  they  are — you  know  what 
I  mean,  Grace  ;  when  they  are  not  themselves 
— do  things  that  are  wrong  without  meaning 
it. "  Tlien  he  ))aused,  while  she  remained  stand- 
ing by  him  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of  his. 
Siie  Avas  looking  at  his  face,  whicli  had  been 
turned  toward  her  wdiile  they  were  reading  to- 
gether, but  which  now  was  so  far  moved  that 
she  knew  that  his  eyes  could  not  be  fixed  upon 
hers.  "Of  course,  if  the  bishop  orders  it,  it 
sliall  be  so,"  he  said.  "  It  is  quite  enough  for 
me  that  he  is  the  bishop." 

"  What  has  the  bishop  ordered,  papa?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.  It  is  she  who  does  it.  Ho 
ims  given  no  opinion  about  it.  Of  course  not. 
He  has  none  to  give.  It  is  the  woman.  You 
go  and  tell  her  from  me  that  in  such  a  matter  I 
will  not  obey  the  word  of  any  woman  living. 
Go  at  once,  when  I  tell  you." 

Then  she  knew  that  her  father's  mind  was 
wandering,  and  she  knelt  down  by  the  bedside, 
still  holding  his  hand. 

"  Grace,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  am  here." 

' '  Why  do  you  not  do  what  I  tell  you  ?"  And 
ho  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  "I  suppose  you  are 
afraid  of  the  woman  ?" 

"  I  should  be  afraid  of  her,  dear  papa." 

"I  was  not  afraid  of  her.  AVhen  she  spoke 
to  me  I  would  have  notliing  to  say  to  her ;  not 
a  word — not  a  word — not  a  word."  As  he  said 
this  he  waved  his  hands  about.  "But  as  for 
him — if  it  must  be,  it  must.  I  know  I'm  not 
fit  for  it.  Of  course  I  am  not.  Who  is  ?  But 
what  has  he  ever  done  that  he  should  be  a 
dean  ?  I  beat  him  at  every  thing ;  almost  at 
every  thing.  He  got  the  Newdegatc,  and  that 
was  about  all.  Upon  my  word  I  think  that 
was  all." 

"  But  Dr.  Arabin  loves  you  truly,  dear  papa." 

"Love  me  I  pshaw!  Does  he  ever  come  here 
to  tea,  as  he  used  to  do  ?  No  !  I  remember  but- 
tering toast  for  him  down  on  my  knees  before 
the  fire,  because  he  liked  it — and  keeping  all 
the  cream  for  him.  He  should  have  had  my 
heart's-blood  if  he  wanted  it.  But  now— look 
at  his  books,  Grace.  It's  t!ie  outside  of  them 
he  cares  about.  They  are  all  gilt,  but  I  doubt 
if  he  ever  reads.  As  for  her — I  will  not  allow 
any  woman  to  tell  me  my  duty.  No ;  by  my 
Maker — not  even  your  mother,  who  is  the  best 


178 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


of  women.  Ami  as  for  her,  with  her  little  hus- 
band dangling  at  lier  a])rcin-strings,  as  a  call- 
wiiistlu  to  be  blown  into  wlien  she  pleases — that 
she  shonld  dare  to  teach  nic  my  duty !  No ! 
The  men  in  the  jury-box  may  decide  it  how  they 
will.  If  they  can  believe  a  i>Iain  story,  let  them ! 
If  not,  let  tlieni  do  as  they  please.  I  am  ready 
to  bear  it  all." 

"Dear  ])apa,  you  arc  tired.  AYill  you  not 
try  to  slceii?" 

"  Tell  IMrs.  Proudic  wliat  I  say ;  and  as  for 
Arabia's  money,  I  took  it.  I  know  I  took  it. 
What  would  you  have  had  nie  do  ?  Siiall  I — 
see  tlicm — all — starve  ?"  Then  he  fell  back 
upon  his  bed  and  did  sleep. 

The  next  da}'  lie  was  better,  and  insisted  upon 
getting  out  of  bed,  and  on  sitlini,'  in  his  old  arm- 
chair over  the  fire.  And  the  Greek  books  were 
again  had  out ;  and  Grace,  not  at  all  unwilling- 
ly, was  put  through  her  facings.  "  If  you  don't 
take  care,  my  dear,"'  he  said,  "Jane  will  beat 
you  yet.  Slie  understands  the  force  of  the 
verbs  better  than  you  do." 

"I  am  very  glad  that  she  is  doing  so  well, 
papa.  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  begrudge  her  her 
superiority." 

"  Ah,  but  you  should  begrudge  it  her !"  Jane 
was  sitting  by  at  the  time,  and  the  two  sisters 
were  holding  each  other  by  the  hand.  "  Al- 
ways to  be  best — always  to  be  in  advance  of 
others.     That  should  be  your  motto." 

"  Eut  we  can't  both  be  best,  papa,"  said  Jane. 

"Yon  can  both  strive  to  be  best.  But  Grace 
has  the  better  voice.  I  remember  when  I  knew 
the  whole  of  the  Antigone  by  heart.  You  girls 
should  see  which  can  learn  it  first.'" 

"  It  would  take  such  a  long  time,"  said  Jane. 

"You  are  young,  and  what  can  you  do  bet- 
ter with  3-our  leisure  hours  ?  Fie,  Jane !  I 
did  not  expect  that  from  you.  When  I  was 
learniug.it  I  had  eight  or  nine  pupils,  and  read 
an  hour  a  day  with  each  of  them.  But  I  think 
that  nobody  works  now  as  they  used  to  work 
then.  Where  is  your  mamma?  Tell  her  I 
think  I  could  get  out  as  far  as  Mrs.  Cox's,  if 
she  would  help  me  to  dress."  Soon  after  this 
he  was  in  bed  again,  and  his  head  was  wander- 
ing ;  but  still  they  knew  that  he  was  better  than 
he  had  been. 

"You  arc  more  of  a  comfort  to  your  papa 
than  I  can  be,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley  to  her  eldest 
daughter  that  night  as  they  sat  together  when 
every  body  else  was  in  bed. 

"  Do  not  say  that,  mamma.  Papa  does  not 
think  so." 

"I  can  not  read  Greek  plays  to  him  as  you 
can  do.  I  can  only  nurse  him  in  his  illness  and 
endeavor  to  do  my  duty.  Do  you  know,  Grace, 
that  I  am  beginning  to  fear  that  he  half  doubts 
me?" 

"Oh,  mamma!" 

"That  he  half  doubts  me,  and  is  half  afraid 
of  me.  He  does  not  think  as  he  used  to  do, 
that  I  am  altogether,  heart  and  soul,  on  his 
side.  I  can  see  it  in  his  eye  as  he  watches  me. 
He  thinks  that  I  am  tired  of  him — tired  of  his 


sufferings,  tired  of  his  poverty,  tired  of  the  evil 
which  men  say  of  him.  I  am  not  sure  but  what 
he  thinks  that  I  susjiect  him." 

"  Of  what,  mamma?" 

"Of  general  unfitness  for  the  work  he  has  to 
do.  The  feeling  is  not  strong  as  yet,  but  I  fear 
that  he  will  teach  himself  to  think  that  he  has 
an  enemy  at  his  hearth — not  a  friend.  It  will 
be  the  .saddest  mistake  he  ever  made." 

"  He  told  me  to-day  that  you  were  tlie  best 
of  women.     Those  were  his  very  words." 

"  Were  they,  my  dear?  I  am  glad  at  least 
that  he  should  say  so  to  you.  He  has  been  bet*, 
ter  since  you  came — a  great  deal  better.  For 
one  day  I  was  frightened  ;  but  I  am  sorry  now 
that  I  sent  for  you." 

"I  am  so  glad  mamma;  so  very  glad." 

"  You  were  hajipy  there — and  comfortalde. 
And  if  they  were  glad  to  have  you,  why  should 
I  have  brought  3'ou  away?" 

"But  I  was  not  happy — even  though  they 
were  very  good  to  me.  How  could  I  be  happy 
there  wlicn  I  was  thinking  of  you  and  jiapa  and 
Jane  here  at  home?  Whatever  there  is  here, 
I  would  sooner  share  it  witli  you  than  be  any 
where  else — while  this  trouble  lasts." 

"My  darling! — it  is  a  great  comfort  to  seel 
you  again." 

"  Only  that  I  knew  that  one  less  in  the  liouse| 
would  be  a  saving  to  you  I  should  not  have  gone.i 
When  there  is  unhappiness,  people  should  stay, 
together — shouldn't  they,  mamma?"  Theyj 
were  sitting  quite  close  to  each  other,  on  an  oldi 
sofa  in  a  small  np-stairs  room,  from  which  ai 
door  opened  into  the  larger  chamber  in  wliiehi 
Mr.  Crawley  was  lying.  It  had  been  arranged' 
between  them  that  on  this  night  jMrs.  Crawley 
should  remain  with  her  husband,  and  that  Grace! 
should  go  to  her  bed.  It  was  now  past  one 
o'clock,  but  she  Avas  still  there,  clinging  to  her 
mother's  side,  with  her  mother's  arm  drawn 
round  her.  "Mamma,"  she  said,  when  they 
had  both  been  silent  for  some  ten  minutes,  "Jj 
iKive  got  something  to  tell  you." 
/    "To-night?" 

"Yes,  mamma ;  to-night,  if  you  will  let  me.'' 

"  But  you  promised  that  you  would  go  to  bed., 
You  were  up  all  last  night." 

"I  am  not  sleepy,  mamma." 

"  Of  course  you  shall  tell  me  what  you  please, 
dearest.  Is  it  a  secret  ?  Is  it  something  I  am 
not  to  repeat?" 

"  You  nlust  say  how  that  ought  to  be,  mam- 
ma.    I  shall  not  tell  it  to  any  one  else." 

"Well,  dear?" 

"  Sit  comfortably,  mamma — there  ;  like  that,! 
and  let  me  have  your  hand.  It's  a  terrible  storyf 
to  have  to  tell." 

"A  terrible  story,  Grace?" 

"I  mean  that  you  must  not  draw  away  fromt| 
me.     I  shall  want  to  feel  that  you  are  quite;^ 
close  to  me.     Mamma,  while  I  was  at  Alling-i 
^on  Major  Grantly  came  there." 
''     "Did  he,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"Did  he  know  them  before?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


179 


'ilAlUIA,   I'VE   GOT  SOMETUI> 


\  "  No,  mamma ;  noi  at  the  Small  House.  But 
he  came  there— to  see  me.  He  asked  me— to 
Ibe  his  wife.     Don't  move,  mamma." 

"My  darling  child!  I  won't  move,  dearest. 
Well;  and  what  did  you  say  to  him?  God 
bless  him,  at  any  rate !  May  God  bless  him, 
because  he  has  seen  ■with  a  true  eye,  and  felt 
jwith  a  noble  instinct.  It  is  something,  Grace, 
|to  have  been  wooed  by  such  a  man  at  such  a 
'time." 

'  •  Mamma,  it  did  make  me  feci  proud ;  it  did." 


"You  had  known  him  well  before — of  course  ? 
I  knew  that  you  and  he  were  friends,  Grace." 

"Yes,  we  were  friends.  I  always  liked  him. 
I  used  not  to  know  what  to  think  about  him. 
Miss  Anne  Prettyman  told  mc  that  it  would  bo 
so;  and  once  before  I  thought  so  myself." 

"  And  had  you  made  up  your  mind  what  to 
say  to  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  had  then.     But  I  did  not  say  it." 

"Did  not  say  what  you  had  made  up  your 
mind  to  say?" 


ISO 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET 


"That  was  before  all  this  had  hapiicncJ  to 
pajia." 

'•I  mulcrstand  you,  dearest." 

"  Wiicn  Miss  Anne  I'rettyman  told  mo  that 
I  should  be  rcad\-  with  my  answer,  and  when  I 
taw  that  Miss  Prcttynian  herself  used  to  let  him 
come  to  tlie  Iiouse,  and  seemed  to  wish  that  I 
should  s-'e  him  wlion  he  came,  and  when  he  once 
was — so  very  f;'entle  and  kind,  and  when  he  said 
that  he  wanted  me  to  love  Editli —  Oh,  mamma !" 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know.  Of  course  you  loved 
him.'' 

'•  Yes,  mamma.  And  I  do  love  him.  IIow 
could  one  not  love  him?" 

"I  love  him — for  loving  you." 

"But,  mamma,  one  is  bound  not  to  do  a 
harm  to  any  one  that  one  loves.  So  when  he 
camo  to  Allington  I  told  him  that  I  could  not  bo 
his  witb." 

"Did  you,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,'l  did.'  Was  I  not  right?  Ought  I 
to  go  to  him  to  bring  a  disgrace  upon  all  tho 
fiimily,  just  because  he  is  so  good  that  he  asks 
me  ?  Shall  I  injure  him  because  he  wants  to 
do  me  a  service?" 

"If  he  loves  you,  Grace,  the  service  he  will 
require  will  be  your  love  in  return." 

"That  is  all  very  well,  mamma — in  books; 
but  I  do  not  believe  it  in  reality.  Being  in  love 
is  very  nice,  and  in  poetry  they  make  it  out  to 
be  every  thing.  But  I  do  not  think  I  should 
make  Major  Grantly  happy  if  when  I  became 
his  wi^e  his  own  father  and  mother  would  not 
see  him.  I  know  I  should  be  so  wretched  ray- 
self  that  I  could  not  live." 

"But  would  it  be  so?" 

"Yes — I  think  it  would.  And  the  archdea- 
con is  very  rich,  and  can  leave  all  his  money 
away  from  Major  Grantly  if  he  pleases.  Think 
what  I  should  feel  if  I  were  the  cause  of  Edith 
losing  her  fortune!" 

"But  why  do  you  suppose  these  terrible 
things  ?" 

"I  have  a  reason  for  supposing  them.  This 
must  be  a  secret.  Miss  Anne  I'rcttyraan  wrote 
to  me." 

"I  wish  ]Miss  Anne  Prettyman's  hand  had 
been  in  the  fire." 

"No,  mamma;  no;  she  was  right.  Would 
not  I  have  wished,  do  yon  think,  to  have  learn- 
ed all  the  truth  about  the  matter  before  I  an- 
swered him?  Besides,  it  made  no  difference. 
I  could  have  made  no  other  answer  while  papa 
is  under  swell  a  terrible  ban.  It  is  no  time  for 
lis  to  think  of  being  in  love.  We  have  got  to 
love  each  otiier.  Isn't  it  so,  mamma?"  The 
mother  did  not  answer  in  words,  but  slipping 
down  on  her  knees  before  her  child  threw  her 
arms  round  her  girl's  body  in  a  close  embrace. 
"Dear  mamma!  dearest  mamma!  this  is  what 
I  wanted — that  yon  should  love  me  !" 

"  Love  yon,  my  angel !" 

"And  trust  me — and  tliat  wc  should  under- 
stand each  other  and  stand  close  bv  each  other. 
We  can  do  so  much  to  comfort  one  another — 
but  we  can  not  comfort  other  people." 


"He  must  know  that  best  himself,  Grace; 
but  what  did  he  say  more  to  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  said  any  thing  more." 

"  He  just  left  you  then  ?" 

"He  said  one  thing  more." 

"  And  what  was  that  ?" 

"  He  said — but  he  had  no  right  to  say  it."      | 

"What  was  it,  dear?"  j 

"  That  he  knew  I  loved  him,  and  that  there-! 
fore —  But,  mamma,  do  not  think  of  that.  I 
will  never  be  his  wife — never,  in  opposition  to 
his  family." 

"But  he  did  not  take  your  answer?" 

"He  must  take  it,  mamma.  He  shall  take 
it.  If.  he  can  bo  stubborn,  so  can  I.  If  he 
knows  how  to  think  of  me  more  than  himself, 
I  can  think  of  him  and  Edith  more  than  of  my-: 
self.  That  is  not  quite  all,  mamma.  Then  hci 
wrote  to  me.     There  is  his  letter." 

Mrs.  Crawley  read  the  letter.  "I  suppose 
you  answered  it?" 

"Yes,  I  answered  it.  It  was  very  bad,  my 
letter.  I  should  think  after  that  lie  will  never 
want  to  have  any  thing  more  to  say  to  me.  I 
tried  for  two  days,  but  I  could  not  write  a  nice 
letter."  [ 

"But  what  did  you  say  ?"  i 

"I  don't  in  the  least  remember.  It  does  not; 
in  the  least  signify  now,  but  it  was  such  a  bad! 
letter."  .; 

"  I  dare  say  it  was  very  nice."  ; 

"It  was  terribly  stiff,  and  all  about  a  gcntle-i 
man." 

"All  about  a  gentleman!  What  do  youi 
mean,  my  dear?" 

"  Gentleman  is  such  a  frightful  word  to  havei: 
to  use  to  a  gentleman  ;  but  I  did  not  know  what 
else  to  say.  Mamma,  if  you  please,  we  won'l 
talk  about  it — not  about  the  letter,  I  mean.  A^ 
for  him,  I'll  talk  about  him  forever  if  you  lib 
it.     I  don't  mean  to  be  a  bit  broken-hearted." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"Yes,  mamma,  that  he  is;  and  it  is  thai 
which  makes  me  so  proud.  When  I  think  of  i1 
I  can  hardly  hold  myself.  But  now  I've  tolc 
you  every  thing,  and  I'll  go  awav,  and  go  tc 
bed." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

MR.  TOOGOOD  TKAVELS  rEOFESSIONALLY. 

/  Mr.  Toogo.od  paid  another  visit  to  Barset^ 
shire,  in  order  that  he  might  get  a  little  furthel 
information  which  he  thought  would  be  necesi 
sary  before  dispatching  his  nephew  upon  thd 
traces  of  Dean  Arabin  and  his  wife.  Ho  wen) 
down  to  Barchester,  after  his  work  was  over,  bj 
an  evening  train,  and  put  himself  up  at  "Th* 
Dragon  of  Wantly,"  intending  to  have  the  wholt 
of  the  next  day  for  his  work.  Mr.  Walker  had 
asked  him  to  come  and  take  a  return  pot-lucJ 
dinner  with  jMrs.  Walker  at  Silverbridge ;  am' 
this  he  had  said  that  ho  would  do.  After  hav 
ing  "rummaged  about  for  tidings"  in  Barchesi 
tcr,  as  he  called  it,  he  would  take  the  train  foi 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


181 


!  Silverbi'iilgc,  and   ^vould  get  back  to  tcnvn  in 
I  time  for  business  on  the  third  day.      "  One  day 
l^von't  be  much,  you  know,"  he  said  to  his  part- 
i  nor,  as  he  made  half  an  apology  for  absenting 
I  himself  on  business  which  was  not  to  be  in  any 
I  degree  remunerative.      "That  sort  of  thing  is 
:  very  well  when  one  does  it  without  any  ex- 
pense," said  Crump.     "  So  it  is, "  said  Toogood ; 
"  and  the  expense  won't  make  it  any  worse." 
He  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  it  was  not  prob- 
jable  that  any  thing  Mr.  Crump  might  say  would 
deter  him. 

lie  saw  John  Eames  before  he  started. 
"You'll  be  ready  this  day  week,  will  you?" 
;  John  Eames  promised  that  he  would.  "  It  will 
I  cost  you  some  forty  pounds,  I  should  say.  By 
George — if  you  have  to  go  on  to  Jerusalem,  it 
'will  cost  you  more."  In  answer  to  this,  Johnny 
!  pleaded  that  it  would  be  as  good  as  any  other 
[tour  to  him.  He  would  see  the  world.  "I'll 
[tell  you  what,"  said  Toogood;  "I'll  pay  half. 
Only  you  mustn't  tell  Crump.  And  it  will  be 
1  quite  as  well  not  to  tell  Maria."     But  Johnny 

would  hear  nothing  of  this  scheme.     He  would 
I 
pay  the  entire  cost  of  his  own  journey.     He  had 

lots  of  money,  he  said,  and  would  like  nothing 

'better.      "Then  I'll  run  down,"  said  Toogood, 

;and  "  rummage  up  what  tidings  I  can.     As  for 

1  writing  to  the  dean,  what's  the  good  of  writing 

to  a  man  when  you  don't  know  where  he  is? 

'Business   letters    always   lie  at  hotels  for  two 

'  months,  and  then  come  back  with  double  post- 

lage.     From  all  I  can  hear,  you'll  stumble  on 

licr  before  you  find  him.     If  we  do  nothing  else 

but  bring  him  back,  it  will  be  a  great  thing  to 

l:ave  the  su])port  of  such  a  friend  in  the  court. 

A  Barchestcr  jury  won't  like  to  find  a  man  guilty 

■ho  is  liand  and  glove  with  the  dean." 

^Ir.  Toogood  reached  the  "Dragon"  about 

•i eleven  o'clock,  and  allowed  the  boots  to  give 

jhim  a  pair  of  slippers  and  a  candlestick.     But 


he  would  not  go  to  bed  just  at  that  moment. 
He  would  go  into  tlie  coffee-room  first,  and  have 
a  glass  of  hot  brandy-and-water.  So  the  hot 
brandy-and-water  was  brought  to  him,  and  a 
cigar,  and  as  he  smoked  and  drank  he  conversed 
witli  the  waiter.  The  man  was  a  waiter  of  the 
ancient  class,  a  gray -haired  waiter,  with  seedy 
clothes,  and  a  dirty  towel  under  his  arm  ;  not  a 
dapper  waiter,  with  black  shiny  hair,  and  dress- 
ed like  a  guest  for  a  dinner-party.  Tlicre  arc 
two  distinct  classes  of  waiters,  and  as  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  perceive,  the  special  status  of 
the  waiter  in  question  can  not  be  decided  by 
observation  of  the  class  of  waiter  to  which  he 
belongs.  In  such  a  town  as  Barchester  you 
may  find  the  old  waiter  with  the  dirty  towel  in 
the  head  inn,  or  in  the  second-class  inn,  and  so 
you  may  the  dapper  waiter.  Or  you  may  find 
both  in  each,  and  not  know  which  is  senior . 
waiter  and  which  junior  waiter.  But  for  serv- 
ice I  always  prefer  the  old  waiter  with  the 
dirty  towel,  and  I  find  it  more  easy  to  satisfy 
him  in  the  matter  of  sixpences  when  my  rela- 
tions with  the  inn  come  to  an  end. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long,  John  ?"  said  Mr. 
Toogood. 

"  A  goodish  many  years,  Sir." 

"  So  I  tliought,  b}'  the  look  of  yon.  One  can 
see  that  yotx  belong  in  a  way  to  the  place.  You 
do  a  good  deal  of  business  here,  I  su])pGse,  at 
this  time  cf  the  year  ?" 

"Well,  Sir,  pretty  fair.  The  house  ain't 
what  it  used  to  be,  Sir." 

"  Times  are  bad  at  Barchester — are  they?" 

"I  don't  know  much  about  the  times.  It's 
the  peo)ile  is  worse  than  the  times,  I  think. 
They  used  to  like  to  have  a  little  bit  of  dinner 
now  and  again  at  a  hotel,  and  a  drop  of  some- 
thing to  drink  after  it." 

"And  don't  they  like  it  now?" 

"  I  think  they  like  it  well  enough,  but  they 
don't  do  it.  I  suppose  it's  their  wives  as  don't 
let  'em  come  out  and  enjoy  theirselves.  There 
used  to  be  the  Goose  and  Glee  club — that  was 
once  a  month.  They've  gone  and  clean  done 
away  with  themselves— that  club  has.  There's 
old  Bumpter  in  the  High  Street — he's  the  last 
of  the  old  Geese.  They  died  ofi^,  you  see,  and 
wlien  Mr.  Biddle  died  they  wouldn't  choose 
another  president.  A  club  for  having  dinner, 
Sir,  ain't  nothing  without  a  president." 

"I  suppose  not." 

"  And  there's  the  Freemasons.  They  must 
meet,  you  know.  Sir,  in  course,  because  of  the 
dooties.  But  if  you'll  believe  mo.  Sir,  they  don't 
so  much  as  wet  their  whistles.  They  don't  in- 
deed. It  always  used  to  be  a  supper,  and  that 
was  once  a  month.  Now  they  i)ays  a  rent  for 
the  use  of  the  room  !  Who  is  to  get  a  living 
out  of  that.  Sir  ?  not  in  the  way  of  a  waiter, 
that  is." 

"  If  that's  the  way  things  are  going  on  I  sup- 
pose the  servants  leave  their  places  pretty  often  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Sir.  A  man  may 
do  a  deal  worse  than  '  The  Dragon  of  AVantly.' 
Them  as  goes  away  to  better  themselves  often 


182 


THE  LAST  CUEONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


MR.   TOOGOOD  AND  THE   OLD  WAITEK. 


worses  themselves,  as  I  call  it.     I've  seen  a 

good  deal  of  that." 

"And  you  stick  to  the  old  shop  ?" 

"  Yes,   Sir ;  I've  been   here  fifteen  year,  I 

think   it  is.      There's   a   many   goes   away  as 

doesn't  go  out  of  their  own  heads,  you  know, 

Sir." 

"  They  get  the  sack,  you  mean  ?"' 
"There's  words  between  tliem  and  master — 

or   more   likely   missus.     That's   where   it   is. 

Servants  is  so  foolisli.     I  often  tell  'cm  how 


wrong  folks  are  to  say  that  soft  words  butter  no 
parsnips,  and  hard  words  bi-eak  no  bones." 

"I  think  you've  lost  some  of  the  old  hands 
here  since  this  time  last  year,  John." 

"You  knows  the  house  then,  Sir?" 

"  Well;  I've  been  here  before." 

"There  were  four  of  them  went,  I  think  it's 
just  about  twelve  months  back,  Sir." 

"There  M-as  a  man  in  the  yard  I  used  to 
know,  and  last  time  I  was  down  here  I  found 
that  he  was  gone." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


183 


"There  was  one  of  'cm  out  of  the  yard,  and  terness  of  grief;  there  is  no  repining  that  the 
twc  out  of  the  house.  IMaster  and  them  had  end  has  come,  but  S)iin])ly  a  toucli  of  sorrow  tliat 
got  to  very  higli  words.  Tiierc  was  ])0()r  Scut-  so  mucli  that  is  dear  must  be  left  behind.  Mr. 
tie,  who  had  been  post-boy  at  '  The  (compasses'  1  Harding  shook  hands  witli  his  visitor,  and  in- 
bcfore  he  came  here."  vited  him  to  sit  down,  and  then  seated  himself, 

"  He  went  away  to  New  Zealand,  didn't  he  ?"    folding  his  hands  together  over  his  knees,  and 


B'levc  he  did,  Sir ;  or  to  some  foreign  jjarts 
And  Anne,  as  was  under-chambcr-niaid  here, 
she  went  with  him,  fool  as  she  was.  They  got 
theirselves  married  and  went  off,  and  he  was 
well-nigh  as  old  as  nie.  But  seems  he'd  saved 
a  little  money,  and  that  goes  a  long  way  with 
any  girl." 

"  Was  he  the  man  who  drove  Mr.  Soames  that 
d.iy  the  check  was  lost?"  INIr.  Toogood  asked 
this  question  perhaps  a  little  too  abruptl}'.  At 
any  rate  he  obtained  no  answer  to  it.  The 
waiter  said  he  knew  nothing  about  Mr.  Soames 
or  the  check,  and  the  lawyer,  suspecting  that  the 
waiter  was  suspecting  him,  finished  his  brandy- 
and-water  and  went  to  bed. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  he  observed 
that  he  was  specially  regarded  by  a  shabby-look- 
ing man,  dressed  in  black,  but  in  a  black  suit 
that  was  very  old,  witli  a  red  nose,  whom  he  had 
seea  in  the  hotel  on  the  preceding  day;  and  he 
learned  that  this  man  was  a  cousin  of  the  land- 
lord— one  Dan  Stringer — who  acted  as  a  clerk 
in  the  hotel  bar.  He  took  an  opportunity  also 
of  saying  a  word  to  Mr.  Stringer,  the  landlord, 
whom  he  found  to  be  a  su.iiewhat  forlorn  and 
gouty  individual  seated  on  cushions  in  a  little 
parlor  behind  the  bar.  After  breakfast  he  went 
out,  and  having  twice  walked  round  the  cathe- 
dral close,  and  inspected  the  front  of  the  palace, 
and  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  prebenda- 
ries' houses,  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  dean- 
ery. Tlic  dean  and  Mrs.  Arabin  M'ere  on  the 
continent,  he  was  told.  Then  he  asked  for  Mr. 
Harding,  having  learned  that  Mr.  Harding  was 
IVIrs.  Arabin's  father,  and  that  he  lived  at  the 
deanery.  Mr.  Harding  was  at  home,  but  was/~ 
not  very  well,  the  servant  said.  Mr.  Toogood,/ 
however,  persevered,  sending  up  his  card,  and 
saying  that  he  wished  to  have  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  Mr.  Harding  on  very  ])articn- 
lar  business.  He  wrote  a  word  upon  iiis  card 
before  giving  it  to  the  servant — '•  about  Mr. 
Crawley."  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  shown 
into  the  library,  and  had  hardly  time,  while 
looking  at  the  shelves,  to  remember  what  Mr. 
Crawley  had  said  of  his  anger  at  the  beautiful 
bindings,  before  an  old  man,  very  thin  and  very 
pale,  shuffled  into  the  room.  He  stooped  a 
good  deal,  and  his  black  clothes  were  very  loose 
about  his  sliruuken  limbs.  He  was  not  decrepit, 
nor  did  lie  seem  to  be  one  who  had  advanced  to 
extreme  old  age  ;  but  yet  he  shuffled  rather 
thau  walked,  hardly  raising  his  feet  from  the 
ground.  ]Mr.  Toogood,  as  he  came  forward  to 
meet  iiim,  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a 
sweeter  face.  There  was  very  much  of  melan- 
choly in  it,  of  that  soft  sadness  of  age  which 
seems  to  acknowledge,  and  in  some  sort  to  re- 
gret, the  waning  oil  of  life  ;  but  the  regret  to  be 
real  in  such  faces  has  in  it  nothing  of  the  bit- 


he  said  a  few  words  in  a  very  low  voice  as  to 
the  absence  of  his  daughter  and  of  the  dean. 

"I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  troubling  you," 
said  Mr.  Toogood. 

"  It  is  no  trouble  at  all — if  I  could  be  of  any 
use.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  proper,  but 
may  I  ask  whether  you  call  as — as — as  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Crawley's?" 

"Altogether  as  a  friend,  Mr.  Harding." 
"I'm  glad  of  that;   though  of  course  I  am 
M'ell  aware  that  the  gentlemen  engaged  on  the 
prosecution  must  do  their  duty.      Still — I  don't 
know — somehow  I  would  rather  not  hear  tliem 
speak  of  this  poor  gentleman  before  the  trial." 
"  You  know  Mr.  Crawley,  then  ?" 
"  Very  slightly — very  slightly  indeed.      He 
is  a  gentleman  not  much  given  to  social  habits, 
and  has  been  but  seldom  here.     But  he  is  an 
old  friend  wliom  my  son-in-law  loves  dearly." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mr.  Harding. 
Perhaps  before  I  go  any  furtiier  I  ought  to  tell 
you  that  Mrs.  Crawley  and  I  are  first-cousins." 
"  Oh,  indeed.  Then  you  are  a  friend." 
"I  never  saw  him  in  my  life  till  a  few  days 
ago.  He  is  very  queer,  you  know — very  queer 
indeed.  I'm  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Harding,  practicing 
in  London — an  attorney,  that  is."  At  each  sep- 
arate announcement  Mr.  Harding  bowed,  and 
when  Toogood  named  his  sj^ecial  branch  of  his 
profession  Mr.  Harding  bowed  lower  than  before, 
as  though  desirous  of  showing  that  he  had  great 
respect  for  attorneys.  "And  of  course  I'm  anx- 
ious, if  only  out  of  respect  for  the  family,  that 
my  wife's  cousin  should  pull  through  this  little 
difficulty,  if  possible." 

"And  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  man  himsoflf 
too,  and  for  his  wife,  and  his  children — and  for 
the  sake  of  the  cloth." 

"Exactly;   taking  it  all  together  it's  such  a 
])ity,  you  know.     I  think,  Mr.  Harding,  he  can 
hardly  have  intended  to  steal  the  money." 
"  I'm  sure  he  did  not." 

"It's  very  hard  to  be  sure  of  any  body,  Mr. 
Harding — very  hard." 

"I  feel  quite  sure  that  he  did  not.  He  has 
been  a  most  pious,  hard-working  clergyman.  I 
can  not  bring  myself  to  think  that  he  is  guilty. 
What  does  the  Latin  proverb  say  ?  '  No  one  of 
a  sudden  becomes  most  base.' " 

"But  the  temptation,  iMr.  Harding,  was  very 
strong.  He  was  awfully  badgered  about  his 
debts.  That  butcher  in  Silverbridge  was  play- 
ing the  mischief  with  him." 

"All  the  butchers  in  Barsetshire  coulil  not 
make  an  honest  man  steal  money,  and  I  tliink 
that  ]\Ir.  Crawley  is  an  honest  man.  You'll 
excuse  me  for  being  a  little  hot  about  one  of 
my  own  order." 

"  Why,  he's  my  cousin — or  rather,  my  wife's. 
But  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Harding,  we  must  get  hold 


1S4 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


of  the  dean  as  soon  as  possible  ;  and  I'm  going 
to  send  ji  gentleman  after  liim." 

"To  send  a  gentleman  after  him?"  said  Mr. 
Harding,  almost  in  dismay. 

"Yes;   I  thinly  tliat  will  be  best." 

"I'm  afraid  lie'll  have  to  go  a  long  way,  Mr. 
Toogood." 

"The  dean,  I'm  fold,  is  in  Jerusalem." 

"I'm  afraid  he  is — or  on  his  journey  tlierc. 
He's  to  be  there  for  tlie  Easter  week,  and  Sun- 
day week  will  be  Easter  Sunday.  Hut  why 
should  the  gentleman  want  to  go  to  Jerusalem 
after  tlic  dean  ?'' 

Then  I\Ir.  Toogood  cx])lained  as  well  as  ho 
was  able  tliat  the  dean  miglit  liave  something  to 
say  on  tlie  subject  which  would  serve  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's defense.  "We  shouldn't  leave  any  stone 
unturned,"  said  Mr.  Toogood.  "As  far  as  I  can 
judge,  Crawley  still  tliinks— or  half  thinks — 
tliat  he  got  the  check  from  your  son-in-law." 
Jlr.  Harding  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "I'm 
not  saying  he  did,  you  know,"  continued  Mr. 
Toogood.  "I  can't  sec  myself  how  it  is  pos- 
sible— but  still  we  ought  not  to  leave  any  stone 
unturned.  And  Mrs.  Arabin — can  you  tell  mo 
at  all  where  wc  shall  find  her?" 

"Has  she  any  thing  to  do  with  it,  Mr.  Too- 
good  ?" 

"I  can't  quite  say  that  she  has,  but  it's  just 
possible.  As  I  said  before,  Mr.  Harding,  we 
mustn't  leave  a  stone  unturned.  They're  not 
expected  here  till  the  end  of  A])ril?" 

"About  the  25th  or  2Cth,  I  think." 

"And  the  assizes  arc  the  28th.  The  judges 
come  into  tlic  citj'  on  that  day.  It  will  be  too 
late  to  wait  till  then.  We  must  have  our  de- 
fense ready,  you  know.  Can  you  say  where  my 
friend  will  find  Mrs.  Arabin  ?" 

Jilr.  Harding  began  nursing  his  knee,  ])atting 
it  and  being  very  tender  to  it,  as  he  sat  medita- 
ting witli  liis  head  on  one  side — meditating  not 
so  much  as  to  the  nature  of  his  answer  as  to  tliat 
of  the  question.  Could  it  be  necessary  that  any 
emissary  from  a  lawyer's  ofiicc  should  be  sent 
after  his  daughter?  He  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  his  Eleanor  being  disturbed  by  questions  as 
to  a  theft.  Though  she  had  been  twice  married 
and  had  a  son  who  was  now  nearly  a  man,  still 
she  was  his  Eleanor.  But  if  it  was  necessary 
on  Mr.  Crawley's  behalf,  of  course  it  must  be 
done.  ' '  Her  last  address  was  at  Paris,  Sir ; 
but  I  think  slie  has  gone  on  to  Florence.  She 
has  friends  there,  and  she  purposes  to  meet  tiic 
dean  at  Venice  on  his  return."  Then  Mr.  Hard- 
ing turned  the  table  and  wrote  on  a  card  his 
daugliter's  address. 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Arabin  must  have  heard  of 
the  affair  ?"  said  Mr.  Toogood. 

"  She  had  not  done  so  when  she  last  wrote". 
I  mentioned  it  to  her  the  other  day,  before  I 
knew  tliat  she  had  left  Paris.  If  my  letters  and 
her  sister's  letters  have  been  sent  on  to  her  she 
must  know  it  now." 

Then  Mr.  Toogood  got  np  to  take  his  leave. 
•'You  will  excuse  mc  for  troubling  you,  I  hope, 
Mr,  Harding." 


"Oh,  Sir,  pray  do  not  mention  that.  It  is 
no  trouble,  if  one  could  only  be  of  any  service." 

"One  can  always  try  to  be  of  service.  In 
tl'.esc  affairs  so  much  is  to  be  done  by  rummag- 
ing about,  as  I  always  call  it.  There  have  been 
many  theatrical  managers,  you  know,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing, who  have  usually  made  up  their  jiieces  ac- 
cording to  the  dresses  they  have  happened  to 
have  in  their  wardrobes." 

"Have  there,  indeed,  now?  I  never  .should 
have  thought  of  that." 

"  And  we  lawyers  liave  to  do  the  same  thing." 

"Not  with  your  clotlics,  I\Ir.  'i'oogood  ?" 

"Not  exactly  with  our  clotiies — but  with  our 
information." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Mr.  Toogood." 

"  In  preparing  a  defense  we  have  to  rummage 
about  and  get  up  w  hat  we  can.  If  wc  can't  find  ■ 
any  thing  that  suits  us  exactly,  mc  arc  obliged 
to  use  what  we  do  find  as  well  as  wc  can.  I 
remember,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  a  hostler 
was  to  be  tried  for  stealing  some  oats  in  tho 
Borough  ;  and  he  did  steal  them  too,  and  sold 
tiiem  at  a  rag-shop  regularly.  The  evidence 
against  him  was  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff.  All  I 
could  find  out  was  that  on  a  certain  day  a  horse 
had  trod  on  the  fellow's  foot.  So  we  put  it  to 
the  jury  whether  tlie  man  could  walk  as  far  as 
the  rag-shop  M'ith  a  bag  of  oats  when  he  was 
dead  lame — and  we  got  liim  off"." 

"  Did  you  tliongh?"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"Yes,  wc  did." 

"And  he  was  guilty?" 

"He  had  been  at  it  regularly  for  months." 

"Dear,  dear,  dear!  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
better  to  have  had  him  punished  for  tlie  fault — 
gently ;  so  as  to  warn  him  of  the  consequences 
of  such  doings  ?" 

"Our  business  was  to  get  him  off — and  we 
got  him  off".  It's  my  business  to  get  my  cousin's 
husband  off,  if  I  can,  and  we  must  do  it,  by 
hook  or  crook.  It's  a  very  difficult  ])iece  of 
work,  because  he  won't  let  us  employ  a  barrister. 
However,  I  sliall  have  one  in  the  court  and  say 
nothing  to  him  about  it  at  all.  Good-by,  Mr. 
Harding.  As  you  say,  it  would  be  a  thousand 
pities  that  a  clergyman  should  be  convicted  of  a 
theft — and  one  so  well  connected  too." 

Mr.  Harding,  when  he  was  left  alone,  began 
to  turn  the  matter  over  in  his  mind  and  to  reflect 
whether  the  thousand  j)ities  of  whicli  IMr.  Too- 
good  had  spoken  a])]iertaiued  to  the  conviction 
of  the  criminal  or  the  doing  of  tlie  crime.  "If 
he  did  steal  tlie  money  I  suppose  he  ought  to  be 
punished,  let  him  be  ever  so  much  a  clergyman," 
said  Mr.  Harding  to  himself.  But  yet — how 
terrible  it  would  be !  Of  clergymen  convicted 
of  fraud  in  London  he  had  often  heard  ;  but 
nothing  of  the  kind  had  ever  disgraced  the  dio- 
cese to  which  he  belonged  since  he  had  known 
it.  He  could  not  teach  himself  to  hope  that 
Mr.  Crawley  should  be  acquitted  if  Mv.  Crawley 
were  guilty — but  he  could  teach  himself  to  be- 
lieve that  Mr.  Crawley  was  innocent.  Some- 
thing of  a  doubt  had  crept  across  his  mind  as  he 
talked   to  tho   lawyer.     Mr.  Toogood,  thoughl 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


185 


Mrs.  Crawley  v.as  his  cousin,  seemed  to  believe 
that  the  money  had  been  stolen ;  and  Mr.  Too- 
good  as  a  lawyer  ought  to  understand  such  mat- 
ters better  than  an  old  secluded  clergyman  in 
Barciiester.  But,  nevertheless,  Mr.  Toogood 
miglit  be  wrong;  and  Mr.  Harding  succeeded 
in  satisfying  himself  at  last  that  he  could  not  be 
doing  harm  in  thinking  that  Mr.  Toogood  was 
wrong.  When  he  had  made  up  his  mind  on 
this  matter  he  sat  down  and  wrote  tlie  following 
letter,  which  he  addressed  to  his  daughter  at  the 
post-office  in  Florence : 

"  Deaneky,  March  — ,  1S(5-.   ) 

"  Dearest  Nelly, — When  I  wrote  on  Tues- 
day I  told  you  about  poor  Mv.  Crawley,  that  he 
was  the  clergyman  in  Barsetsliire  of  whose  mis- 
fortune you  read  an  account  in  Gal'KjnanVs  Mes- 
senger— and  I  tliink  Susan  must  have  written 
about  it  also,  because  every  body  here  is  talking 
of  nothing  else,  and  because,  of  course,  we  know 
how  strong  a  regard  tlie  dean  has  for  Mr.  Craw- 
ley. But  since  that  something  has  occurred 
which  makes  me  write  to  you  again — at  once. 
A  gentleman  has  just  been  here,  and  has  indeed 
only  this  moment  left  me,  who  tells  me  that  he 
is  an  attorney  in  London,  and  that  he  is  nearly 
related  to  Sirs.  Crawley.  He  seems  to  be  a  very 
good-natured  man,  and  I  dare  say  he  understands 
his  business  as  a  lawyer.  His  name  is  Toogood, 
and  lie  has  come  down  as  he  says  to  get  evidence 
to  help  the  poor  gentleman  on  iiis  trial.  I  can 
not  understand  how  this  should  be  necessary, 
because  it  seems  to  me  that  the  evidence  should 
all  be  wanted  on  the  other  side.  I  can  not  for 
a  moment  suppose  that  a  clergyman  and  a  gen- 
tleman such  as  Mr.  Crawley  should  have  stolen 
money,  and  if  he  is  innocent  I  can  not  under- 
stand why  all  this  trouble  should  be  necessary 
to  prevent  a  jury  finding  him  guilty. 

'•  Mr.  Toogood  came  here  because  he  wanted 
to  see  the  dean — and  you  also.  He  did  not  ex- 
plain, as  far  as  I  can  remember,  why  he  wanted 
to  see  you ;  but  he  said  it  would  be  necessary, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  send  off  a  messenger 
to  find  you  first,  and  the  dean  afterward.  It 
has  something  to  do  with  the  money  which  was 
given  to  Mr.  Crawley  last  year,  and  which,  if 
I  remember  riglit,  was  your  present.  But  of 
course  Mr.  Toogood  could  not  have  known  any 
thing  about  tliat.  However,  I  gave  him  the 
address — poste  restante,  Florence — and  I  dare 
say  that  somebody  will  make  you  out  before 
long  if  you  are  still  stopping  at  Florence.  I 
did  not  like  letting  him  go  without  telling  you 
about  it,  as  I  thought  that  a  lawyer's  coming  to 
3<ou  would  startle  you. 

"  Tiie  bairns  are  quite  w'ell,  as  I  told  you  in 
my  other  letter,  and  Miss  Jones  says  tliat  little 
Elly  is  as  good  as  gold.  They  are  with  me  every 
morning  and  evening,  and  behave  like  darling 
angels,  as  they  are.  Posy  is  my  own  little  jewel 
always.  You  may  be  quite  sure  I  do  nothing  to 
spoil  them. 

"God  bless  you,  dearest  Nelly. 

"Your  most  affectionate  father, 

"Septimus  Harding." 
M 


After  this  he  wrote  another  letter  to  his  other 
daughter,  Mrs.  Grantly,  telling  her  also  of  Mr. 
Toogood's  visit;  and  then  he  spent  tiie  remain- 
der of  the  day  tliinking  over  the  gravity  of  the 
occurrence.  How  terrible  would  it  be  if  a  ben- 
eficed clergyman  in  the  diocese  should  really  be 
found  guilty  of  theft  by  a  jury  from  the  city ! 
And  then  he  had  always  heard  so  higii  a  charac- 
ter of  this  man  from  his  son-in-law.  No — it 
was  impossible  to  believe  that  Mr.  Crawley  had 
in  truth  stolen  a  check  for  twenty  pounds  ! 

Mr.  Toogood  could  get  no  otlier  information 
in  Barchester,  and  went  on  to  Silverbridge  early 
in  the  afternoon.  He  was  half  disjjosed  to  go 
by  Hogglestock  and  look  up  his  cousin,  wjiom 
he  had  never  seen,  and  his  cousin's  husband, 
upon  whose  business  he  was  now  intent ;  but  on 
reflection  he  feared  that  he  might  do  more  harm 
than  good.  He  had  quite  appreciated  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Crawley  was  not  like  other  men. 
"The  man's  not  above  half-saved,"  he  liad  said 
to  his  Avife — meaning  thereby  to  insinuate  that 
the  poor  clergyman  was  not  in  full  possession 
of  his  wits.  And  to  tell  the  truth  of  Mr.  Too- 
good,  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  relative. 
There  was  a  something  in  ]\Ir.  Crawley's  man- 
ner, in  spite  of  his  declared  poverty,  and  in  spite 
also  of  his  extreme  humility,  which  seemed  to 
announce  that  he  expected  to  be  obeyed  when 
he  spoke  on  any  point  with  authority.  Mr. 
Toogood  had  not  forgotten  the  tone  in  which 
Mr.  Crawley  had  said  to  him,  "  Sir,  this  thing 
you  can  not  do."  And  he  thought  that,  ujjon 
the  whole,  he  had  better  not  go  to  Hogglestock 
on  this  occasion. 

When  at  Silverbridge  he  began  at  once  to 
"  rummage  about."  His  chief  rummaging  was 
to  be  done  at  Mr.  Walker's  table ;  but  before 
dinner  he  had  time  to  call  upon  the  magistrate's 
clerk,  and  ask  a  few  questions  as  to  the  pro- 
ceedings at  the  sitting  from  which  Mr.  Crawley 
was  committed.  He  found  a  very  taciturn  old 
man,  who  was  nearly  as  difficult  to  deal  with  in 
any  rummaging  process  as  a  porcupine.  But, 
nevertheless,  at  last  he  reached  a  state  of  con- 
versation which  was  not  absolutely  hostile.  Mr. 
Toogood  pleaded  that  he  was  the  poor  man's 
cousin — pleaded  that,  as  the  family  lawyer,  he 
was  naturally  the  poor  man's  protector  at  such 
a  time  as  the  present — pleaded  also  that  as  the 
poor  man  was  so  very  poor  no  one  else  could 
come  forward  on  his  behalf — and  in  this  way 
somewhat  softened  the  hard  sharpness  of  the 
old  porcupine's  quills.  But  after  all  this,  there 
was  very  little  to  be  learned  from  the  old  por- 
cupine. "There  was  not  a  magistrate  on  the 
bench,"  he  said,  "who  had  any  doubt  that  the 
evidence  was  sufficient  to  justify  them  in  send- 
ing the  case  to  the  assizes.  They  had  all  re- 
gretted"— the  porcupine  said  in  his  softest  mo- 
ment— "that  the  gentleman  had  come  there 
without  a  legal  adviser."  "Ah,  that's  been 
the  mischief  of  it  all!"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  dash- 
ing  his  hand  against  the  porcupine's  mahogany 
table.  "  But  the  fiicts  were  so  strong,  Mr.  Too- 
good!"     "Nobody  there  to  soften  'em  down, 


18G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  shaking  his  head. 
Very  little  more  than  this  was  learned  from  the 
porcupine ;  and  then  Air.  Toogood  went  away, 
and  prepared  for  Mr.  "Walker's  dinner. 

Mr.  Walker  had  invited  Dr.  Ten)])est  and 
Miss  Anne  I'rettyman  and  Major  Grantly  to 
meet  Mr.  Toogood,  and  had  exjjlained,  in  a 
manner  intended  to  be  half  earnest  and  half  jo- 
cose, that  though  Mr.  Toogood  was  an  attorney, 
like  himself,  and  was  at  this  moment  engaged 
in  a  nohle  way  on  behalf  of  his  cousin's  hus- 
b;'.nd,  without  any  idea  of  receiving  back  even 
the  money  which  he  would  be  out  of  ])ocket, 
still  he  wasn't  quite — not  quite,  you  know — 
"  not  quite  so  much  of  a  gentleman  as  I  am"' — 
Mr.  Walker  would  have  said,  had  he  spoken  out 
freely  that  which  he  insinuated.  But  he  con- 
tented himself  with  the  cm]jhasis  he  put  upon 
the  "not  quite,"  wliicli  expressed  his  meaning 
fully.  And  Jlr.  Walker  was  correct  in  his  opin- 
ion of  Mr.  Toogood.  As  regards  the  two  attor- 
neys I  will  not  venture  to  say  that  either  of 
them  was  not  a  "perfect  gentleman."  A  per- 
fect gentleman  is  a  thing  which  I  can  not  de- 
fine. But  undoubtedly  Mr.  Walker  was  a 
bigger  man  in  his  way  than  was  Mr.  Toogood 
in  his,  and  did  habitually  consort  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Barsctshire  with  men  of  higher  standing 
tlian  those  with  whom  Mr.  Toogood  associated 
in  London. 

It  seemed  to  be  understood  that  Mr.  Crawley 
was  to  be  the  general  subject  of  conversation, 
and  no  one  attempted  to  talk  about  any  thing 
else.  Indeed,  at  this  time,  very  little  else  was 
talked  about  in  that  part  of  the  county — not  only 
because  of  the  interest  naturally  attaching  to 
the  question  of  the  suspected  guilt  of  a  parish 
clergyman,  but  because  much  had  become  lately 
known  of  Mr.  Crawley's  character,  and  because 
it  was  known  also  that  an  internecine  feud  had 
arisen  between  him  and  the  bishop.  It  had  un- 
doubtedly become  the  general  opinion  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  picked  up  and  used  a  check  which 
was  not  his  own — that  he  had,  in  fact,  stolen  it; 
but  there  was,  in  spite  of  that  belief,  a  general 
wish  that  he  might  be  acquitted  and  left  in  his 
living.  And  when  the  tidings  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
victory  over  the  bislio])  at  the  palace  had  become 
bruited  about  ])0])ular  sympathy  went  with  the 
victor.  The  theft  was,  as  it  were,  condoned, 
and  people  made  excuses  which  were  not  always 
rational,  but  wliich  were  founded  on  the  instincts 
of  true  humanity.  And  now  the  tidings  of  an- 
other stage  in  the  battle,  as  fought  against  Mr. 
Crawley  by  the  bishop,  had  gone  forth  through 
the  county,  and  men  had  heard  that  the  rural 
dean  was  to  be  instnicted  to  make  inquiries 
which  should  be  preliminary  to  proceedings 
against  Mr.  Crawley  in  an  ecclesiastical  court. 
Dr.  Tempest,  who  was  now  about  to  meet  Mr. 
Toogood  at  Mr.  Walker's,  was  the  rural  dean  to 
whom  Mr.  Crawley  would  have  to  submit  him- 
self in  any  such  inquiry ;  but  Dr.  Tempest  had 
not  as  yet  received  from  the  bishop  any  official 
order  on  the  subject. 

"We  are  so  delighted  to  think  that  vou  have 


taken  up  your  cousin's  case,"  said  Mrs.  Walker 
to  Mr.  Toogood,  ahnost  in  a  whisjjer. 

"He  is  not  just  my  cousin  himself,"  said  Mr. 
Toogood  ;  "but  of  course  it's  all  the  same  thing. 
And  as  to  taking  up  his  case,  you  see,  my  dear 
madam,  he  won't  let  me  take  it  up." 

"I  thought  you  had.  I  thought  you  were 
down  here  about  it  ?" 

"Only  on  the  sly,  Mrs.  Walker.  He  has 
such  queer  ideas  that  he  will  not  allow  a  lawyer 
to  be  iiroi)crly  employed  ;  and  you  can't  conceive 
how  hard  that  makes  it.  Do  you  know  him, 
Mrs.  Walker?" 

"We  know  his  daughter  Grace."  And  then 
Mrs.  Walker  whispered  something  further,  which 
we  may  presume  to  have  been  an  intimation 
that  the  gentleman  opposite — Major  Grantly — 
was  supposed  by  some  people  to  be  very  fond  of 
Miss  Grace  Crawley. 

"Quite  a  child,  isn't  she?"  said  Toogood, 
whose  own  daughter,  now  about  to  be  married, 
was  three  or  four  years  older  than  Grace. 

"She's  beyond  being  a  child,  I  think.  Of 
course  she  is  young." 

"  But  I  suppose  this  affair  will  knock  all  that 
on  the  head  ?"  said  the  lawyer. 

"I  do  not  know  how  that  may  be  ;  but  they 
do  say  he  is  ver}'  much  attached  to  her.  The 
major  is  a  man  of  family,  and  of  course  it  would 
be  very  disagreeable  if  Mr.  Crawley  were  found 
guilty." 

"  Very  disagreeable  indeed ;  but,  upon  my 
word,  Mrs.  Walker,  I  don't  know  what  to  say 
about  it." 

"You  think  it  will  go  against  him,  Mr.  Too- 
good?"  Mr.  Toogood  shook  his  head,  and  on 
seeing  this,  Mrs.  Walker  sighed  deeply. 

"I  can  only  say  that  I  have  heard  nothing 
from  the  bishop  as  yet," said  Dr.  Tempest,  after 
the  ladies  had  left  the  room.  "  Of  course,  if  he 
thinks  well  to  order  it,  the  inquiry  must  be  made." 

"But  how  long  would  it  take?"  asked  Mr. 
Walker. 

"Three  months,  I  should  think — or  perhaps 
more.  Of  course  Crawley  would  do  all  that  he 
could  to  delay  us,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that 
we  should  be  inany  very  great  hurry  ourselves." 

"Who  arc  the  'we,'  doctor?"  said  Mr. 
Walker. 

"I  can  not  make  such  an  inquiry  by  myself, 
you  know.  I  suppose  the  bishop  would  ask  me 
to  select  two  or  four  other  clergymen  to  act  with 
me.  That's  the  usual  way  of  doing  it.  But 
you  may  be  quite  sure  of  this,  Walker :  the 
assizes  will  be  over,  and  the  jury  have  found 
their  verdict  long  before  we  have  settled  our  pre- 
liminaries." 

"And  what  will  be  the  good  of  your  going  on 
after  that  ?" 

"  Only  this  good  :  if  the  unfortunate  man  be 
convicted — " 

"Which  he  won't,"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  who 
thought  it  expedient  to  put  on  a  bolder  front  in 
talking  of  the  matter  to  the  rural  dean  than  he 
had  assumed  in  his  whispered  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Walker. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


187 


"I  hope  not,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  the 
doctor.  "But,  perhai)s,  for  the  sake  of  the  ar- 
guniont,  the  supposition  may  be  allowed  to 
pass." 

'■  Certainly,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Toogood.  "  For 
the  sake  of  the  ijrgument,  it  may  pass." 

"  If  he  be  convicted,  then,  I  suppose  there 
will  be  an  end  of  the  question.  He  would  be 
sentenced  for  not  less,  I  should  say,  than  twelve 
niontlis ;  and  after  that — " 

"  And  would  be  as  good  a  parson  of  Hoggle- 
stock  when  he  came  out  of  prison  as  when  he 
went  in,"  said  JNIr.  Walker.  "Tlie  conviction 
and  judgment  in  a  civil  court  would  not  touch 
his  temporality." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  'Mr.  Toogood. 

'•Of  course  not,"  said  tiie  doctor.  "We  all 
know  that ;  and  in  the  event  of  Mr.  Crawley 
coming  back  to  his  parish  it  would  be  open  to 
the  bishop  to  raise  the  question  as  to  his  fitness 
for  the  duties." 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  be  as  fit  as  any  one  else  ?" 
said  Mr.  Toogood. 

"Simply  because  he  would  have  been  found 
to  be  a  thief,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  must  ex- 
cuse me,  Mr.  Toogood,  but  it's  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  argument." 

"I  doTi't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it," 
said  Mr.  Toogood.  "He  would  have  under- 
gone his  penalty." 

"It  is  preferable  that  a  man  who  preaches 
from  a  pulpit  should  not  have  undergone  such  a 
penalty,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  in  practice, 
under  such  circumstances — which  we  none  of  us 
anticipate,  Mr.  Toogood — the  living  should  no 
doubt  be  vacated.  Mr.  Crawley  would  "proba- 
bly Iiardly  wish  to  come  back.  The  jury  will 
do  their  work  before  we  can  do  ours — will  do  it 
on  a  much  better  base  than  any  we  can  have; 
and,  wiien  they  have  done  it,  the  thing  ought  to 
be  finished.  If  the  jury  acquit  liim  the  bishop 
can  not  proceed  any  further.  If  he  be  found' 
guilty  I  think  that  the  resignation  of  the  living 
must  follow." 

"It  is  all  spite,  then,  on  the  bishop's  part?" 
said  the  major. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  doctor.  "The  poor 
man  is  weak  ;  that  is  all.  lie  is  driven  to  per- 
secute because  he  can  not  cscajie  persecution 
himself.  But  it  may  really  be  a  question 
whether  his  present  proceeding  is  not  right.  If 
I  were  bishop  I  should  wait  till  the  trial  was 
over;   that  is  all." 

From  this  and  from  much  more  that  was  said 
during  the  evening  on  the  same  subject  Mr. 
Toogood  gradually  learned  the  position  which 
Mr.  Crawley  and  the  question  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
guilt  really  held  in  the  county,  and  he  returned 
to  town  resolved  to  go  on  witli  the  case. 

"  I'll  have  a  barrister  down  express,  and  I'll 
defend  him  in  his  own  teeth,"  he  said  to  liis 
wife.  "There'll  be  a  scene  in  court,  I  dare  say, 
and  the  man  will  call  upon  his  own  counsel  to 
hold  his  tongue  and  shut  up  his  brief;  and,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  counsel  in  such  a  case  would 
iiave  no  alternative.     But  there  would  come  an 


explanation — how  Crawley  was  too  honorable  to 
employ  a  man  whom  he  could  not  pay,  and  there 
would  be  a  romance,  and  it  would  all  go  down 
witii  the  jury.  One  wants  sympathy  in  sucli  a 
case  as  that — not  evidence." 

"  And  how  much  will  it  cost,  Tom  ?"  said 
Maria,  dolefully. 

"  Only  a  trifie.  We  won't  think  of  that  yet. 
There's  John  Eamcs  is  going  all  the  way  to  Je- 
rusalem, out  of  his  jjorket." 

"But  Johnny  hasn't  got  twelve  children, 
Tom.". 

"  One  doesn't  have  a  cousin  in  trouble  every 
day,"  said  Toogood.  "  And  then  you  see 
there's  something  very  jjretty  in  tlie  case.  It's 
quite  a  pleasure  getting  it  up." 


CHAPTER  XLin. 

MR.  CKOSBIE    GOES    INTO    THE    CITY. 

"I've  known  the  City  now  for  more  than  ten 
years,  Mr.  Crosbie,  and  I  never  knew  money  to 
be  so  tight  as  it  is  at  this  moment.  The  liest 
commercial  bills  going  can't  be  done  under 
nine,  and  any  other  kind  of  paper  can't  so 
much  as  get  itself  looked  at."  Thus  spoke  Mr. 
Musselboro.  He  was  seated  in  Dobbs  Brough- 
ton's  arm-chair  in  Dobbs  Broughton's  room  in 
Hook  Court,  on  the  hind  legs  of  which  he  was 
balancing  himself  comfortably;  and  he  was 
communicating  his  experience  in  City  matters  to 
our  old  friend,  Adolphus  Crosbie — of  whom  we 
may  surmise  that  he  would  not  have  been  there 
at  that  moment  in  Hook  Court  if  things  had 
been  going  well  witli  him.  It  was  now  past  elev- 
en o'clock,  and  he  should  have  been  at  hisofticc 
at  the  West  End.  His  ])osition  in  his  office 
was  no  doubt  high  enough  to  place  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  any  special  inquiry  as  to  such  ab- 
sences ;  but  it  is  generally  felt  that  when  the 
Crosbies  of  the  West  End  have  calls  into  the 
City  about  noon,  things  in  the  world  are  not 
going  well  with  them.  The  man  who  goes  into 
the  City  to  look  for  money  is  generally  one 
who  does  not  know  where  to  get  money  when 
he  wants  it.  Mr.  Musselboro  on  this  occasion 
kept  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  way  in  which  he  balanced  his  chair 
which  was  in  itself  an  offense  to  jMr.  Crosbic's 
personal  dignity.  It  was  hardly  as  yet  two 
months  since  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  had  assured 
him  in  that  very  room  that  there  need  not  be 
the  slightest  anxiety  about  his  bill.  Of  course 
it  could  be  renewed — the  commission  being  duly 
paid.  As  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  explained  on 
that  occasion,  that  was  his  business.  There  was 
nothing  he  liked  so  much  as  renewing  bills  for 
such  customers  as  Mr.  Crosbie ;  and  he  was 
very  candid  at  that  meeting,  explaining  how  he 
did  this  branch  of  his  business,  raising  money 
on  his  own  credit  at  four  or  five  per  cent.,  and 
lending  it  on  his  own  judgment  at  eight  or  nine. 
Mr.  Crosbie  did  not  feel  himself  then  called 
upon  to  exclaim  that  what  he  was  called  upon 


188 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


to  iiay  was  about  twelve,  perfectly  iniderstaTuling 
the  comfort  ami  grace  of  cuiihoiiy  ;  but  he  had 
turned  it  over  in  his  mind,  considering  whether 
twelve  jKT  cent,  was  not  more  tlian  he  ought  to 
be  mulcted  for  the  accommodation  lie  wanted. 
Now,  at  the  moment,  he  would  liave  i)ecu  glad 
to  get  it  from  ^Ir.  JIusselboro,  without  farther 
words,  for  twenty. 

Things  had  much  changed  witli  Adolphus 
Crosbie  when  he  was  driven  to  make  morning 
visits  to  such  a  one  as  Mr.  IVIusselhoro  with  the 
view  of  having  a  bill  renewed  for  two  huiulrcd 
and  fifty  pounds.  In  liis  early  life  he  had  al- 
ways had  the  merit  of  biniig  a  careful  man  as 
to  money.  In  some  other  respects  he  had  gone 
astray  very  foolislily — as  has  been  partly  ex- 
plained in  our  earlier  chapters ;  but  up  to  the 
date  of  his  marriage  with  Lady  Alexandrina  Dc 
Courcy  he  had  never  had  dealings  in  Ilook 
Court  or  in  any  such  locality.  Money  troubles 
had  then  come  upon  him.  Lady  Alexandrina, 
being  the  daughter  of  a  countess,  had  high 
ideas;  and  when,  very  shortly  after  his  mar- 
riage, he  had  submitted  to  a  separation  from 
his  noble  wife,  he  had  found  himself  and  his  in- 
come to  be  tied  up  inextricably  in  the  hands  of 
,one  Mr.  Mortimer  Gazebee,  a  lawyer  who  liad 
married  one  of  his  wife's  sisters.  It  was  not 
that  Mr., Gazebee  was  dishonest;  nor  did  Cros- 
bie suspect  him  of  dishonesty ;  but  the  lawyer 
was  so  wedded  to  the  interest  of  the  noble  fami- 
ly with  which  he  was  connected  that  he  worked 
for  them  all  as  an  inferior  spider  might  be  sup- 
posed to  work,  wliicli,  from  the  infirmity  of  its 
nature,  was  compelled  by  its  instincts  to  be 
catching  flies  always  for  superior  spiders.  Mr. 
Mortimer  Gazebee  had  in  this  way  entangled 
Mr.  Crosbie  in  his  web  on  behalf  of  those  noble 
spiders,  the  Dc  Courcys,  and  our  poor  friend, 
in  his  endeavor  to  fight  his  way  through  the 
web,  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Hook 
Cou.rt  firm  of  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  Dobbs  Brougli- 
ton,  and  JIusselboro. 

"  Mr.  Broughton  told  me  when  I  was  last 
here,"  said  Crosbie,  "that  there  would  be  no 
difficulty  about  it." 

"  And  it  was  renewed  then  ;  wasn't  it?" 

"  Of  course  it  was — for  two  months.  But  he 
was  speaking  of  a  continuation  of  renewal." 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Crosbie.  I'm 
afraid  we  can't,  indeed.  Money  is  so  awful 
tight." 

"  Of  course  I  must  jiay  wliat  you  choose  to 
charge  me." 

"It  isn't  that,  l\Ir.  Crosbie.  The  bill  is  out 
for  collection,  and  must  be  collected.  In  times 
like  tliese  we  must  draw  ourselves  in  a  little, 
you  know.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  isn't 
a  great  deal  of  money,  you  will  say  ;  but  every 
little  helps,  you  know ;  and,  besides,  of  course 
we  go  upon  a  system.  Business  is  business, 
and  must  not  be  made  pleasure  of.  I  should 
have  had  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  doing 
this  for  you,  but  it  can't  be  done  in  the  way  of 
business." 

"When  will  Broughton  be  here?" 


"He  may  be  in  at  any  time — I  can't  say 
when.     I  suppose  he's  down  at  the  court  now." 

"What  court?" 

"  Capel  Court." 

"I  suppose  I  can  see  him  there  ?"  said  Cros- 
bie. 

"  If  you  catch  him  you  can  see  him,  of  course. 
But  what  good  will  that  do  you,  Mr.  Crosbie? 
I  tell  you  that  we  can't  do  it  for  you.  If  Brougli- 
ton  was  here  this  moment  it  couldn't  make  the 
slightest  diftcrence." 

Now  Mr.  Crosbie  had  an  idea  that  Mr.  Mus- 
selboro,  though  he  sat  in  Dobbs  Broughton's 
seat,  and  kept  on  his  hat,  and  balanced  his  chair 
on  two  legs,  was  in  truth  nothing  more  than  a 
clerk.  He  did  not  quite  understand  the  manner 
in  which  the  affairs  of  the  establishment  were 
worked,  though  he  had  been  informed  that  Mrs. 
Van  Siever  was  one  of  the  partners.  That 
Dobbs  Broughton  was  the  managing  man,  who 
really  did  the  business,  he  was  convinced ;  and 
he  did  not  therefore  like  to  be  answered  peremp- 
torily by  such  a  one  as  Musselboro.  "  I  should 
wish  to  see  Mr.  Broughton,"  he  said. 

"  You  can  call  again,  or  you  can  go  down  to 
the  court  if  you  like  it.  But  you  may  take  this 
as  an  answer  from  me  that  the  bill  can't  be  re- 
ewed  by  us."  At  this  moment  the  door  of  the 
room  was  opened,  and  Dobbs  Broughton  him- 
self came  into  it.  His  face  was  not  at  all  pleas- 
ant, and  any  one  might  have  seen  with  half  an 
eye  that  the  money-market  was  a  great  deal 
tighter  than  he  liked  it  to  be.  "  Here  is  Mr. 
Crosbie  here — about  that  bill,"  said  Musselboro. 

"  Mr.  Crosbie  must  take  up  his  bill,  that's 
all,"" said  Dobbs  Broughton. 

"But  it  doesn't  suit  me  to  take  it  up,"  said 
Crosbie. 

"Then  you  must  take  it  up  without  suiting 
you,"  said  Dobbs  Broughton. 

It  might  have  been  seen,  I  said,  with  half  an 
eye,  that  Mr.  Broughton  did  not  like  the  state 
of  the  money-market ;  and  it  might  also  be  seen 
with  the  other  half  that  he  had  been  endeavor- 
ing to  mitigate  the  bitterness  of  his  dislike  by 
alcoholic  aid.  Musselboro  at  once  perceived 
that  his  patron  and  partner  was  half  drunk,  and 
Crosbie  was  aware  that  he  had  been  drinking. 
But  nevertheless  it  was  necessary  tliat  some- 
thing more  should  be  said.  The  bill  would  be 
4ue  to-morrow — was  p.ayable  at  Crosble's  bank- 
ers ;  and,  as  Mr.  Crosbie  too  well  knew,  there 
were  no  funds  there  for  the  purpose.  And  there 
were  other  purposes,  very  needful,  for  which 
Mr.  Crosbie's  funds  were  at  the  present  moment 
unfortunately  by  no  means  sufficient.  He  stood 
for  a  few  moments  thinking  what  he  would  do — 
whether  he  would  leave  the  drunken  man  and 
his  office  and  let  the  bill  take  its  chance,  or 
whether  he  would  make  one  more  effort  for  an 
arrangement.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  believe 
that  Broughton  himself  was  subject  to  any  pe- 
cuniary difficulty.  Broughton  lived  in  a  iiig 
house,  as  rich  men  live,  and  liad  a  name  for 
commercial  success.  It  never  occurred  to  Cros- 
bie that  it  was  a  matter  of  great  moment  to 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


189 


/  Pobbs  Bronghton  himself  that  the  bill  should 
be  tulieii  lip.  Crosbie  still  thought  that  Mus- 
selboro  was  his  special  enemy,  and  that  Brough- 
ton  Iiad  joined  INIusselboro  in  his  hostility  sim- 
ply because  he  was  too  drunk  to  know  better. 
"You  might,  at  any  rate,  answer  me  civilly, 
Mr.  Broughton,"  he  said. 

"I  know  nothing  about  civility  with  things 
as  they  are  at  present, "  said  Broughton.  "Civ- 
il by !     There's  nothing  so  civil  as  paying 

money  when  you  owe  it.  Mussclboro,  reach 
me  down  the  decanter  and  some  glasses.  Per- 
haps Mr.  Crosbie  will  wet  his  whistle." 

"He  don't  want  any  wine — nor  you  either," 
said  JMusselboro. 

"  What's  up  now  ?"  said  Broughton,  stagger- 
ing across  the  room  toward  a  cupboard,  in  which 
it  was  his  custom  to  keep  a  ])rovision  of  that 
comfort  which  he  needed  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. "  I  suppose  I  may  stand  a  glass  of  wine 
to  a  fellow  in  my  own  room,  if  I  like  it." 

"I  will  take  no  wine,  thank  you,"  said  Cros- 
bie. 

"Then  you  can  do  the  other  thing.  When 
I  ask  a  gentleman  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  there 
is  no  compulsion.  But  about  the  bill  there  is 
comjiulsion.  Do  you  understand  that?  You 
may  drink,  or  let  it  alone ;  but  jiay  you  must. 
Why,  Mussy,  what  d'ye  think  ? — there's  Carter, 
Ricketts  and  Carter — I'm  blessed  if  Carter  just 
now  didn't  beg  for  two  months,  as  though  two 
months  would  be  all  the  world  to  him,  and  that 
for  a  trumpery  five  hundred  pounds.  I  never 
saw  money  like  it  is  now ;  never."  To  this  ap- 
peal Musselbora  made  no  reply,  not  caring, 
perhaps,  at  the  ])resent  moment  to  sustain  his 
partner.  He  still  balanced  himself  in  his  chair, 
and  still  ke])t  his  hat  on  his  head.  Even  Mr. 
Crosbie  began  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Mussclboro's 
genius  was  in  the  ascendant  in  Hook  Court. 

"I  can  hardly  believe,"  said  Crosbie,  "that 
things  can  be  so  bad  that  I  can  not  have  a  bill 
for  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  renewed  when 
I  am  willing  to  pay  for  the  accommodation.  I 
have  not  done  much  in  the  way  of  bills,  but  I 
never  had  one  dishonored  yet." 

"Don't  let  this  be  the  first,"  said  Dobbs 
Broughton. 

"Not  if  I  can  prevent  it,"  said  Crosbie. 
"But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  jNIr.  Broughton, 
my  bill  Mill  be  dishonored  unless  I  can  have  it 
renewed.  If  it  does  not  suit  you  to  do  it,  I  sup- 
pose you  can  recommend  me  to  some  one  who 
can  make  it  convenient." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  your  bankers?"  said 
Musselboro. 

"I  never  did  ask  my  bankers  for  any  thing 
of  the  kind." 

"Then  you  should  try  what  your  credit  with 
them  is  worth,"  said  Broughton.  "It  isn't 
worth  much  here,  as  you  can  perceive.  Ha, 
ha,  ha !" 

Crosbie,  when  he  heard  this,  became  very  an-  j 
gvy ;  and  Musselboro,  perceiving  this,  got  out 
of  his  chair,  so  that  he  might  be  in  readiness  to 
prevent  any  violence,  if  violence  were  attempt-  [ 


cd.  "It  really  is  no  good  you're  staying  here," 
he  said.  "You  see  that  Broughton  has  been 
drinking.  There's  no  knowing  what  he  may 
say  or  do." 

"You  be  blowed!"  said  Broughton,  who  had 
taken  the  arm-chair  as  soon  as  Musselboro  had 
left  it. 

"But  you  may  believe  me  in  the  way  of  bus- 
iness," continued  IMussellioro,  "  when  I  tell  you 
that  it  really  does  not  suit  us  to  renew  the  bill. 
We're  pressed  ourselves,  and  we  must  press 
others." 

"And  who  will  do  it  for  me ?"  said  Crosbie, 
almost  in  despair. 

"There  are  Burton  and  Bangles  there,  the 
wine-merchants  down  in  the  yard  ;  perhaps  they 
may  accommodate  you.  It's  all  in  their  line ; 
but  I'm  told  they  charge  uncommon  dear." 

"  I  don't  know  Messrs.  Burton  and  Bangles," 
said  Crosbie. 

"That  needn't  stand  jn  yourM'ay.  Y'ou  tell 
them  where  you  come  from,  and  they'll  make  in- 
quiry. If  they  think  it's  about  right  they'll  give 
you  the  money;  and  if  they  don't,  they  won't." 

Mr.  Crosbie  then  left  the  office  without  ex- 
changing another  word  with  Dobbs  Broughton, 
and  went  down  into  Hook  Court.  As  he  de- 
scended the  stairs  he  turned  over  in  his  mind 
the  propriety  of  going  to  Messrs.  Burton  and 
Bangles  with  the  view  of  relieving  himself  from 
his  present  difficulty.  He  knew  that  it  was 
ruinous.  Dealings  even  with  such  men  as 
Dobbs  Broughton  and  Musselboro,  Mhom  he  pre- 
sumed to  be  milder  in  their  greed  than  Burton 
and  Bangles,  were,  all  of  them,  steps  on  the 
road  to  ruin.  But  what  was  he  to  do?  If  his 
bill  were  dishonored  the  fact  would  certainly 
become  known  at  his  ofiice,  and  he  might  even 
ultimately  be  arrested.  In  the  doorway  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  he  stood  for  some  moments, 
looking  over  at  Burton  and  Bangles's,  and  he 
did  not  at  all  like  the  aspect  of  the  establish- 
ment. Inside  the  office  he  could  see  a  man 
standing  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  very  resplen- 
dent with  a  new  hat — with  a  hat  remarkable 
for  the  bold  upward  curve  of  its  rim — and  this 
man  was  copiously  decorated  with  a  chain  and 
seals  hanging  about  widely  over  his  waistcoat. 
He  was  leaning  with  his  back  against  the  coun- 
ter, and  was  talking  to  some  one  on  the  other 
side  of  it.  There  was  something  in  the  man's 
look  and  manner  that  was  utterly  repulsive  to 
Crosbie.  He  was  more  vulgar  to  the  eye  even 
than  Musselboro,  and  his  voice,  which  Crosbie 
could  hear  as  he  stood  in  the  other  doorway,  was 
almost  as  detestable  as  that  of  Dobbs  Broughton 
in  his  drunkenness.  Crosbie  did  not  doubt 
that  this  was  either  Burton  or  Bangles,  and 
that  the  man  standing  inside  was  either  Bangles 
or  Burton.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  ac- 
cost these  men  and  tell  them  of  his  necessities, 
and  propose  to  them  that  they  should  relieve 
him.  In  spite  of  what  Mussclboro  had  just  said 
to  him,  he  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  he 
sliould  succeed  were  he  to  do  so  without  some  in- 
troduction.   So  ho  left  Hook  Court  and  went  out 


100 


THE  LAST  CHllONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


into  tlie  lanp,  hoarinp  as  he  went  the  lond  voice 
oftlic  man  with  the  turned-up  hat  and  the  chain. 
But  wliat  was  he  to  do?  At  the  outset  of 
his  jjcctiniary  tmuliles,  when  he  first  found  it 
necessary  to  litigate  some  question  witli  the  l)e 
Courcv  jieojde,  and  withstand  the  wch  wliich 
Mortimer  Gazebce  wove  so  assiduously,  liis  own 
atturncv  had  introduced  him  to  l)ohI)S  Broii;^h- 
ton,  and  tlie  assistance  wliicli  lie  had  needed 
liad  come  to  liim,  at  any  rate,  witliout  trouble, 
lie  did  not  es])ecially  liice  Mr.  Brouphton  ;  and 
wlien  Mr.  Bj-ou.ij;hton  fir.st  invited  him  to  come 
and  cat  a  little  bit  of  dinner  he  had  told  himself 
witii  ]iainful  remorse  tliat  in  liis  early  days  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  eat  Ids  little  hits  of  din- 
Ticr  with  people  of  a  ditlcrent  kind.  But  there 
had  been  nothin;;  really  painful  in  this.  Since 
his  marriage  with  a  dauj^hter  of  the  De  Courcys 
— by  which  marriage  lie  had  intended  to  climb 
to  tiic  highest  pinnacle  of  social  eating  and 
drinking — he  had  gradually  found  himself  to  be 
falling  in  the  scale  of  such  matters,  and  could 
bring  liimself  to  dine  with  a  Dobbs  Broughton 
without  any  violent  pain.  But  now  he  had 
fallen  so  low  that  Dobbs  Broughton  had  insult- 
ed him,  and  he  was  in  such  distress  that  he  did  not 
know  wlicre  to  turn  fi>r  ten  pounds.  Mr.  Gaze- 
bee  had  beaten  him  at  litigation,  and  his  own 
lawyer  had  advised  him  that  it  would  be  foolish 
to  try  tlie  matter  further.  In  his  marriage  with 
the  noble  daughter  of  the  De  Courcys  he  had 
allowed  tiie  framers  of  the  De  Courcy  settlement 
to  tie  liim  up  in  such  a  Avay  that  now,  even  when 
chance  had  done  so  mucli  for  him  in  freeing  him 
from  his  wife,  lie  was  still  bound  to  the  De 
Courcy  faction.  Money  had  been  paid  away — 
on  his  behalf,  as  alleged  by  Mr.  Gazebee — like 
running  water;  money  for  furniture,  money  for 
the  lease  of  a  iiouse,  money  when  he  had  been 
separated  from  liis  wife,  money  wliile  slie  was 
living  abroad.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  lie 
had  been  made  to  pay  for  the  entire  support  of 
the  female  moiety  of  the  De  Courcy  family 
which  had  settled  itself  at  Baden-Baden,  from 
the  day;  and  in  some  respects  from  before  the 
day,  on  whif-h  liis  wife  had  joined  that  moiety. 
He  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  struggle  against 
these  payments,  but  every  such  struggle  had 
only  cost  him  more  money.  Mr.  Gazebee  had 
written  to  him  the  civilcst  notes  ;  but  every  note 
seemed  to  cost  him  money — every  word  of  eacli 
note  seemed  to  find  its  way  into  some  bill.  His 
wife  had  died  and  her  body  liad  been  brought 
back,  with  all  tiie  pomp  befitting  the  body  of  an 
earl's  daughter,  that  it  might  be  laid  with  the 
old  De  Courcy  dust — at  his  expense.  The  em- 
balming of  her  dear  remains  had  cost  a  won- 
drous sum,  and  was  a  terrible  blow  upon  liim. 
All  these  items  were  showered  upon  him  by  Mr. 
GazeDec  with  the  most  courteously  worded  de- 
mands for  settlement  as  soon  as  convenient. 
And  then,  when  he  applied  that  Lady  Alexan- 
drina's  small  fortune  should  be  made  over  to 
him — according  to  a  certain  agreement  under 
which  he  had  made  over  all  his  possessions  to 
his  wife  should  she  have  survived  him — Mr. 


Gazebee  expressed  a  mild  <  pinion  that  he  was 
wrong  in  liis  law,  and  blandly  recommended  an 
amicable  lawsuit.  The  amicable  lawsuit  was 
carried  on.  His  own  lawyer  seemed  to  throw 
him  over.  Mr.  Gazebee  was  successful  in  every 
thing.  No  money  came  to  him.  Money  was 
demanded  from  him  on  old  scores  and  on  new 
scores;  and  all  that  he  received  to  console  him 
for  wliat  he  had  lost  was  a  momning  ring  witli 
his  wife's  hair — for  which,  with  sundry  other 
mourning  rings,  he  had  to  pay — and  an  intro- 
duction to  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton.  To  Mr. 
Dobbs  Broughton  he  owed  five  hundred  pounds ; 
and  as  regarded  a  bill  for  the  one-half  of  that 
sum  which  was  due  to-morrow,  Mr.  Dobbs 
liroughton  had  refused  to  grant  him  renewal 
for  a  single  month  ! 

I  know  no  more  uncomfortable  walking  than 
that  wliicli  falls  to  the  lot  of  men  who  go  into 
the  City  to  look  for  money,  and  who  find  none. 
Of  all  the  lost  steps  trodden  by  men,  surely  the 
steps  lost  after  that  fashion  are  tlie  most  nielan- 
choly.  It  is  not  only  tliat  they  are  so  vain,  but 
that  they  are  accompanied  by  so  killing  a  sense 
of  shame !  To  wait  about  in  dingy  rooms,  w  inch 
look  on  to  bare  walls,  and  are  ajiproaclied 
through  some  Hook  Court;  or  to  keep  appoint- 
ments at  a  low  coffee-house,  to  which  tryst ings 
the  money-lender  will  not  trouble  himself  to 
come  unless  it  pleases  him  ;  to  be  civil,  almost 
suppliant,  to  a  cunning  knave  whom  the  bor- 
rower loathes;  to  be  refused  thrice,  and  then 
cheated  with  his  eyes  open  on  the  fourth  at- 
tempt ;  to  submit  liimself  to  vulgarity  of  the 
foulest  kind,  and  to  have  to  seem  to  like  it;  to 
be  badgered,  reviled,  and  at  last  accused  of  want 
of  honesty  by  the  most  fraudulent  of  mankind  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  to  be  clearly  conscious  of 
the  ruin  that  is  coming:  this  is  the  fate  of  him 
who  goes  into  the  City  to  find  money,  not  know- 
ing where  it  is  to  be  found ! 

Crosbie  went  along  the  lane  into  Lombard 
Street,  and  then  he  stood  still  for  a  moment  to 
think.  Though  he  knew  a  good  deal  of  afhiirs 
in  general,  he  did  not  quite  know  what  would 
liajipen  to  him  if  his  bill  should  be  dislionored. 
That  somebody  would  bring  it  to  Iiim  noted, 
and  require  him  instantly  to  ])ut  his  hand  into 
his  pocket  and  bring  out  the  amount  ol'-the  liill,  ■ 
pluy  the  amount  of  certain  cxpcn.-cs,  he  thought 
that  he  did  know.  And  he  knew  that  were  he 
in  trade  he  would  become  a  bankrujit ;  and  ho 
was  well  aware  that  such  an  occurrence  would 
prove  him  to  be  insolvent.  But  he  did  not 
know  what  his  creditors  would  immediately 
have  the  jiower  of  doing.  That  the  fact  of  the 
bill  having  been  dishonored  would  reach  the 
Board  under  which  he  served — and,  tlicrcfore, 
also  the  fiiet  that  he  had  had  recourse  to  such 
bill  transactions — this  alone  was  enough  to  fill 
him  with  dismay.  In  early  life  he  had  carried 
his  head  so  high,  he  had  been  so  much  more 
than  a  mere  Government  clerk,  that  the  idea  of 
the  coming  disgrace  almost  killed  him.  Would 
it  not  be  well  that  he  should  put  an  end  to  him- 
self, and  thus  escape  ?     What  was  there  in  tlio 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


191 


f 


world  now  for  which  it  was  worth  his  while  to 
live?  Lily,  whom  he  had  once  gained,  and  by 
that  gain  had  placed  himself  liigli  in  all  hopes 
of  happiness  and  riches — whom  he  had  then 
thrown  away  from  him,  and  who  had  again 
seemed  to  be  almost  within  his  reach — Lily  had 
so  refused  him  that  he  knew  not  how  to  ap- 
proacli  her  with  a  further  jirayer.  And,  had 
she  not  refused  him,  how  could  he  have  told 
her  of  his  load  of  debt?  As  he  stood  at  the 
corner  where  the  lane  runs  into  Lombard 
Street  he  came  for  a  while  to  think  almost 
more  of  Lily  than  of  his  rejected  bill.  Then, 
as  he  thought  of  both  his  misfortunes  together, 
%e  asked  himself  whether  a  pistol  would  not 
conveniently  put  an  end  to  them  together. 

At  that  moment  a  loud,  harsh  voice  greeted 
his  ear.  "  Halloo,  Crosbic,  what  brings  you  so 
far  east?  One  does  not  often  see  tou  in  the 
City."  It  was  the  voice  of  Sir  Rafflj  Buffle, 
which  in  former  days  had  been  very  odious  to 
Crosbie's  ears ;  for  Sir  Raifle  Buffle  had  once 
been  the  presiding  genius  of  the  oOice  to  which 
Crosbie  still  belonged. 

"No,  indeed,  not  very  often,'*  said  Crosbie, 
smiling.  Who  can  tell,  who  has  not  felt  it,  the 
pain  that  goes  to  the  forcing  of  such  smiles? 
But  Sir  Raffle  was  not  an  acutely  observant  per- 
son, and  did  not  see  that  any  thing  was  wrong. 

"I  suppose  you're  doing  a  little  business?"' 
said  Sir  Raffle.  "  If  a  man  has  kept  a  trifle  of 
money  by  him  this  certainly  is  the  time  for 
turning  it.  You  have  always  been  wide  awake 
about  such  things." 

"No  indeed,"  said  Crosbie.  If  he  could  only 
make  up  his  mind  that  he  would  shoot  himself, 
would  it  not  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  inflict  some 
condign  punishment  on  this  odious  man  before 
he  left  the  world?  But  Crosbie  knew  that  he 
was  not  going  to  shoot  himself,  and  he  knew 
also  that  he  had  no  power  of  inflicting  condign 
punishment  on  Sir  Raffle  Buffle.  He  could 
only  hate  the  man,  and  curse  him  inwardly. 

"  Ah,  ha !"  said  Sir  Raffle.  "You  wouldn't  be 
here  unless  you  knew  where  a  good  thing  is  to 
be  picked  up.  But  I  must  be  off.  I'm  on  the 
Rock}-  IMountain  Canal  Company  Directory. 
I'm  not  above  taking  my  two  guineas  a  day. 
Good-bj',  my  boy.  Remember  me  to  old  Opti- 
mist." And  so  Sir  Raffle  passed  on,  leaving 
Crosbie  still  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  lane. 

What  was  he  to  do?  This  interruption  had 
at  least  seemed  to  drive  Lily  from  his  mind,  and 
to  send  his  ideas  back  to  the  consideration  of 
his  pecuniary  difficulties.  He  thought  of  his 
own  bank,  a  West-End  establishment  at  which 
he  was  personally  known  to  many  of  the  clerks, 
and  where  he  had  been  heretofore  treated  with 
great  consideration.  But  of  late  his  balances 
had  been  very  low,  and  more  than  once  he  had 
been  reminded  that  he  had  overdrawn  his  ac- 
count. He  knew  well  tliat  tlie  distinguished 
firm  of  Bounce,  Bounce,  and  Bounce  would  not 
cash  a  bill  for  him  or  lend  him  money  without 
security.  He  did  not  even  dare  to  ask  them  to 
do  so. 


On  a  sudden  he  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  was 
driven  back  to  his  office.  A  tiiought  had  come 
ui)on  him.  He  would  throw  himself  upon  the 
kindness  of  a  friend  there.  Hitherto  he  had 
contrived  to  hold  his  head  so  high  above  the 
clerks  below  him,  so  high  before  the  Commis- 
sioners who  were  above  him,  that  none  there 
suspected  him  to  be  a  man  in  difficulty.  It  not 
seldom  happens  that  a  man's  character  stands 
too  high  for  his  interest — so  high  that  it  can 
not  be  maintained,  and  so  high  that  any  fall 
will  be  dangerous.  And  so  it  was  with  Crosbie 
and  his  character  at  the  General  Committee  Of- 
fice. The  man  to  whom  he  was  now  thinking 
of  applying  as  his  friend  was  a  certain  Mr.  But- 
terwell,  who  had  been  his  predecessor  in  the 
secretary's  chair,  and  wiio  now  filled  the  less 
onerous  but  more  dignified  position  of  a  Com- 
missioner. Mr.  Crosbie  had  somewhat  despised 
Mr.  Butterwell,  and  had  of  late  years  not  been 
averse  to  showing  that  he  did  so.  He  had 
snubbed  Mr.  Butterwell,  and  Mr.  Butterwell, 
driven  to  his  wits'  ends,  had  tried  a  fall  or  two 
with  him.  In  all  these  struggles  Crosbie  had 
had  the  best  of  it,  and  Butterwell  had  gone  to 
the  wall.  Nevertheless,  for  the  sake  of  official 
decency,  and  from  certain  wise  remembrances 
of  the  sources  of  official  comfort  and  official  dis- 
comfort, Mr.  Butterwell  had  always  maintained 
a  show  of  outward  friendship  with  the  secretary. 
They  smiled  and  were  gracious,  called  each  oth- 
er Butterwell  and  Crosbic,  and  abstained  from 
all  cat-and-dog  absurdities.  Nevertheless  it 
was  the  frequently  expressed  opinion  of  every 
clerk  in  the  office  that  Mr.  Butterwell  hated  Mr. 
Crosbie  like  poison.  This  was  the  man  to 
whom  Crosbie  suddenl}^  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  have  recourse. 

As  he  was  driven  back  to  his  office  he  re- 
solved that  he  would  make  a  plunge  at  once  at 
the  difficulty.  He  knew  that  Butterwell  was 
fairly  rich,  and  he  knew  also  that  he  was  good- 
natured — with  that  sort  of  sleepy  good-nature 
which  is  not  active  for  philanthropic  purposes, 
but  which  dislikes  to  incur  the  pain  of  refusing. 
And  then  Mr.  Butterwell  was  nervous,  and  if 
the  thing. was  managed  well  he  might  be  cheat- 
ed out  of  an  assent  before  time  had  been  given 
him  in  which  to  pluck  up  courage  for  refusing. 
But  Crosbie  doubted  his  own  courage  also — 
fearing  that  if  he  gave  himself  time  for  hesita- 
tion he  would  hesitate,  and  that,  hesitating,  ho 
would  feel  the  terrible  disgrace  of  the  thing  and 
not  do  it.  So,  without  going  to  his  own  desk, 
or  ridding  himself  of  his  hat,  he  went  at  once 
to  Butterwell's  room.  When  he  opened  the 
door  he  found  Mr.  Butterwell  alone,  reading 
the  Tunes.  "  Butterwell,"  said  he,  beginning 
to  speak  before  he  had  even  closed  the  door,  "I 
have  come  to  you  in  great  distress.  I  wonder 
whether  you  can  help  me — I  want  you  to  lend 
me  five  hundred  pounds?  It  must  be  for  not 
less  than  three  months." 

Mr.  Butterwell  dropped  the  paper  fiom  his 
hands,  and  stared  at  the  ^sccrctary  over  his  spec- 
tacles. 


192 


THU  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"i  surrosE  i  must  let  you  have  it." 

Crosbie  had  been  preparing  the  exact  words 
with  whicli  he  assailed  Mr.  Butterwell  for  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour  before  they  were  uttered. 
There  is  always  a  difficulty  in  the  choice,  not 
only  of  the  words  with  which  money  should  be 
borrowed,  but  of  the  fashion  after  which  they 
should  be  spoken.  There  is  the  slow,  deliberate 
manner,  in  using  which  tlie  borrower  attempts 
to  carry  the  wished-for  lender  along  with  liim  by 
force  of  argument,  and  to  prove  that  the  desire 
to  borrow  sliows  no  imprudence  on  his  own  part, 
and  that  a  tendency  to  lend  will  show  none  on 
the  part  of  the  intended  lender.  It  may  be  said 
that  this  mode  fails  oftener  than  any  otlier. 
There  is  tliei)iteous  manner — the  plea  for  com- 
miseration. "My  dear  fellow,  unless  you  will 
see  me  through  now,  upon  my  word  I  shall  be 
very  badly  off."  And  this  manner  may  be  di- 
vided again  into  two.  There  is  the  plea  piteous 
with  a  lie,  and  the  jilea  piteous  with  a  truth. 
'■You  shall  have  it  again  in  two  months  as  sure 
as  the  sim  rises."  That  is  generally  the  plea 
piteous  with  a  lie.  Or  it  may  be  as  follows: 
"  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  I  don't  quite  know 
when  I  can  pay  it  back."  This  is  the  plea  pit- 
eous with  a  truth,  and  upon  the  whole  I  think 
tliat  tliis  is  generally  tlie  most  successful  mode 
of  borrowing.  And  there  is  the  assured  de- 
mand— which  betokens  a  close  intimacy.  "  Old 
fellow,  can  you  let  me  have  thirty  pounds  ?  No. 
Just  put  your  name,  then,  on  the  back  of  this, 
and  I'll  get  it  done  in  tlie  City."  Tiic  worst  of 
tliat  manner  is,  that  the  bill  so  often  does  not 
get  itself  done  in  the  City.  Then  there  is  the 
sudden  attack — that  being  the  manner  to  which 
Crosbie  had  rccourso  in  the  present  instance. 
Tliat  there  are  other  modes  of  borrowing  l)y 
means  of  which  youtfi  becomes  indebted  to  age, 


I  and  love  to  respect,  and  ignorance  to  experience, 
is  a  matter  of  course.  It  will  be  understood 
that  I  am  here  speaking  only  of  borrowing  and 
lending  between  the  Eutterwells  and  Crosbies 
of  the  world.  "  I  have  come  to  yoii  in  great 
distress,"  said  Crosbie.  "  I  wonder  whether 
:  you  can  help  me.  I  want  you  to  lend  me  five 
liundrcd  jiounds."  Mr.  Butterwell,  when  he 
hoard  the  words,  dropped  the  paper  which  he 
was  reading  from  his  hand,  and  stared  at  Cros- 
bie over  bis  s])ectaclcs. 

"Five  hundred  i)ounds!"he  said.  "Dear 
me,  Crosbie;  that's  a  large  sum  of  money." 

"Yes,  it  is — a  very  large  sum.  Half  that  is 
what  I  want  at  once  ;  but  I  shall  want  the  othcj" 
half  in  a  month." 

"I  thouglit  that  yon  were  always  so  much 
above  the  world  in  money-matters.  Gracious 
me!  nothing  tiiat  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time 
has  astonished  me  more.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  always  tliought  that  you  had  your  things 
so  very  snug." 

"  Crosbie  was  aware  that  he  liad  made  one 
very  great  step  toward  success.  Tlie  idea  had 
been  presented  to  Mr.  Biitterwcll's  mind,  and 
had  not  been  instantly  rejected  as  a  scandalous- 
ly iniquitous  idea,  as  an  idea  to  which  no  rj- 
cejition  could  be  given  for  a  moment.  Croshie 
had  not  been  treated  as  was  the  needy  knife- 
grinder,  and  had  ground  to  stand  upon  while  he 
urged  his  request.  "I  have  been  so  pressed 
since  my  marriage,"  he  said,  "  that  it  has  been 
impossible  for  me  to  keep  things  siraight." 

"  But  Lady  Alexandrina — " 

"  Y''es  ;  of  course — I  know.  I  do  not  like  to 
trouble  you  Avith  my  private  affairs — there  is  no- 
thing, I  think,  so  bad  as  washing  one's  dirty 
linen  in  public — but  the  truth  is,  tliat  I  am 
onl}'  now  free  from  the  rai)acity  of  tlie  De  Cour- 
cys.  You  would  hardly  believe  me  if  I  told  you 
what  I've  had  to  pay.  What  do  you  think  of 
two  hundred  and  forty-five  pounds  for  bringing 
her  body  over  here,  and  burying  it  at  De  Cour- 
cyV" 

"I'd  have  left  it  where  it  was." 

"And  so  would  I.  You  don't  suppose  I  or- 
dered it  to  be  done.  Poor  dear  thing!  If  it 
could  do  her  any  good  God  knows  I  would  not 
begrudge  it.  We  had  a  bad  time  of  it  when  we 
were  together,  but  I  would  have  spared  nothing 
for  her,  alive  or  dead,  that  was  reasonable.  But 
to  make  me  pay  for  bringing  tiie  body  over  here, 
when  I  never  had  a  shilling  with  her!  By 
George !  it  was  too  bad.  And  that  oaf  John 
De  Courcy — I  had  to  pay  his  traveling  bill  too." 

"He  didn't  come  to  be  buried — ^did  he?" 

"  It's  too  disgusting  to  talk  of,  Butterwell ; 
it  is  indeed.  And  when  I  asked  for  her  money 
that  was  settled  upon  me — it  was  only  two  thou- 
sand pounds- — they  made  me  go  to  law,  and  it 
seems  there  was  no  two  thousand  pounds  to  set- 
tle. If  I  like,  I  can  have  another  lawsuit  with 
the  sisters  when  the  mother  is  dead.  Oh, 
Butterwell,  I  have  made  such  a  fool  of  myself! 
I  have  come  to  such  shipwreck!  Oh,  Butter- 
well, if^'ou  could  but  know  it  all !" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


193 


"Are  you  free  from  the  De  Courcys  now  ?" 
"I  owe  Gazebec,  tli^  man  who  married  the 
other  woman,  over  a  thousand  ])Ounds.     But  I 
pay  that  off  at  two  hundred  a  year,  and  he  has 
a  policy  on  my  life." 

"  What  do  you  owe  that  for?" 

"Don't  ask  me.     Not  that  I  mind  telling 

you  ;  furniture,  and  the  lease  of  a  house,  and 

his  Itill  for  the  marriage  settlement — d —  him  I" 

"God  bless  me!      They  seem  to  have  been 

very  hard  upon  you." 

"  A  man  doesn't  marry  an  earl's  daughter  for 
nothing,  Butterwell.  And  then  to  tliink  what 
I  lost!  It  can't  be  helped  now,  you  know. 
As  a  man  makes  his  bod  lie  must  lie  on  it.  I 
am  sometimes  so  mad  with  myself  when  I  think 
over  it  all  that  I  should  like  to  blow  my  brains 
out." 

"  You. must  not  talk  in  that  way,  Crosbie.  I 
hate  to  hear  a  man  talk  like  that." 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  shall.  I'm  too  much 
of  a  coward,  I  fancy."  A  man  who  desires  to 
soften  another  man's  heart  should  always  abuse 
himself.  In  softening  a  woman's  heart  he 
should  abuse  her.  "But  life  has  been  so  bitter 
with  me  for  the  last  three  years !  I  haven't  had 
an  hour  of  comfort — not  an  hour.  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  trouble  you  with  all  this.  Butter- 
well.  Oh  !  about  the  money  ;  yes  ;  that's  just 
how  I  stand.  I  owed  Gazebee  something  over 
a  thousand  pounds,  which  is  arranged  as  I  have 
told  you.  Then  there  were  debts  due  by  ray 
wife — at  least  some  of  them  were,  I  suppose — 
and  that  horrid,  ghastly  funeral — and  debts,  I 
don't  doubt,  due  by  the  cursed  old  countess.  At 
any  rate,  to  get  myself  clear  I  raised  something 
ovtr  four  hundred  pounds,  and  now  I  owe  five 
which  must  be  paid,  part  to-morrow,  and  the 
remainder  this  day  month." 
••  And  you've  no  security?" 
'■  Not  a  rag,  not  a  shred,  not  a  line,  not  an 
aero.  There's  my  salary,  and  after  paying 
Ga/.ebee  what  comes  due  to  him  I  can  manage 
to  let  you  have  the  money  within  twelve  months 
— that  is,  if  you  can  lend  it  me.  I  can  just  do 
that  and  live  :  and  if  you  will  assist  me  with  the 
muuey  I  will  do  so.  That's  wliat  I've  brought 
111}  self  to  by  my  own  folly." 

•'Five  hundred  pounds  is  such  a  large  sum 
of  money." 

••  Iiideed  it  is." 
"And  without  any  security  !" 
••I  know,  Butterwell,  that  I've  no  right  to 
a>k  for  it.     I  feel  that.      Of  course  I  should  pay 
yuu  wiiat  interest  you  please." 

"  Money's  about  seven  now;"  said  Butterwell. 
"  I've  not  the  slightest  objection  to  seven  per 
cent.,"  said  Crosbie. 

"But  that's  on  security,"  said  Butterwell. 
"You    can    name   your    own    terms,"   said 
Criisbie. 

Mr.  Butterwell  got  out  of  his  chair,  and 
walked  about  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his 
I'liikcts.  He  was  thinking  at  that  moment  wiiat 
Mrs.  Butterwell  would  say  to  him.  "Will  an 
-answer  do  to-morrow  morning?"  he  said.      "I 


would  mucii  rather  have  it  to-day,"  said  Cros- 
bie. Then  Mr.  Butterwell  took  another  turn 
about  the  room.  "  I  suppose  I  must  let  you 
have  it,"  he  said. 

"Butterwell,"  said  Crosbie,  "I'm  eternally 
obliged  to  you.  It's  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that  you've  saved  me  from  ruin." 

"  Of  course  I  was  joking  about  interest,"  said 
Butterwell.  "  Five  per  cent,  is  the  jjroper  thing. 
You'd  better  let  me  have  a  little  acknowledg- 
ment.    I'll  give  you  the  first  half  to-morrow." 

They  were  genuine  tears  which  filled  Cros- 
bie's  eyes  as  he  seized  hold  of  the  senior's  hand. 
"Butterwell,"  he  said,  "what  am  I  to  say  to 
you?" 

"  Nothing  at  all — nothing  at  all." 
"Your  kindness  makes  me  feel  that  I  ought 
not  to  have  come  to  you." 

"Oil,  nonsense !  By-the-by,  would  you  mind 
telling  Thompson  to  bring  those  papers  to  me 
which  I  gave  him  yesterday  ?  I  promised  Op- 
timist I  would  read  them  before  tiiree,  and  it's 
past  two  now."  So  saying  he  sat  himself  down 
at  his  table,  and  Crosbie  felt  that  he  was  bound 
to  leave  the  room. 

Mr.  Butterwell,  when  he  was  left  alone,  did 
not  read  the  papers  which  Thompson  brought 
him  ;  but  sat,  instead,  thinking  of  his  five  hun- 
dred pounds.  "Just  put  them  down,"  he  said 
to  Thompson.  So  the  jiapers  were  put  down, 
and  there  they  lay  all  that  day  and  all  the  next. 
Then  Thompson  took  them  away  again,  and  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  somebody  read  them.  Five 
hundred  pounds  !  It  was  a  large  sum  of  mon- 
ey, and  Crosbie  was  a  man  for  whom  Mr.  But- 
terwell in  truth  felt  no  very  strong  aftection. 
"Of  course  he  must  have  it  now,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  But  where  should  I  be  if  any  thing 
happened  to  him?"  And  then  he  remembered 
that  Mrs.  Butterwell  especially  disliked  Mr. 
Crosbie — disliked  him  because  she  knew  that 
he  snubbed  her  husband.  "But  it's  hard  to 
refuse,  when  one  man  has  known  another  for 
moi-e  than  ten  years."  Then  he  comforted  him- 
self somewhat  with  tlie  reflection  that  Crosbie 
would  no  doubt  make  himself  more  pleasant  for 
the  future  than  he  had  done  lately,  and  with  a 
second  reflection  that  Crosbie's  life  was  a  good 
life — and  with  a  third,  as  to  his  own  great  good- 
ness in  assisting  a  brother  officer.  Nevertlie- 
less,  as  he  sat  looking  out  of  the  omnibus-win- 
dow on  his  journey  home  to  Putney,  he  was  not 
altogether  comfortable  in  his  mind.  Mrs.  But- 
terwell was  a  very  prudent  woman. 

But  Crosbie  was  very  comfortable  in  his  mind 
on  that  afternoon.  He  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope  for  success,  but  he  had  been  successful. 
He  had  not  even  thought  of  Butterwell  as  a  pos- 
sible fountain  of  supply  till  his  mind  had  been 
brought  back  to  the  afl^airs  of  his  ofiice  by  the 
voice  of  Sir  Raffle  Buffle  at  the  corner  of  the 
street.  Tlie  idea  that  his  bill  would  be  dislion- 
ored,  and  that  tidings  of  his  insolvency  would 
be  conveyed  to  the  commissioners  at  bis  Board, 
had  been  dreadful  to  him.  The  way  in  which 
he  had  been  treated  by  Musselboro  and  Dobbs 


i94 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Broiij;hton  had  made  liim  liatc  City  men,  and 
■what  he  supposed  to  be  City  ways.  Now  tiiorc 
had  come  to  liim  a  relief  whicli  suddenly  made 
every  thing  feel  light.  He  could  almost  think 
of  Air.  Mortimer  Gazcbcc  without  disgust.  Per- 
haps after  all  thei'C  might  be  some  hapjnness  yet 
in  store  for  him.  Might  it  not  bo  jxissible  that 
Lily  would  yet  accept  him  in  sjiite  of  the  chill- 
ing letter — the  freezing  letter  which  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Lily's  mother?  Of  one  thing  he 
was  quite  certain.  If  ever  he  had  an  o]i])ortu- 
nity  of  pleading  his  own  cause  with  her  he  cer- 
tainly would  tell  her  every  thing  respecting  his 
own  money  diflioiltics. 

In'  that  last  resolve  I  think  wo  may  say  that 
he  was  right.  If  Lily  would  ever  listen  to  him 
again  at  all,  slic  certainly  would  not  be  deterred 
from  marrying  him  by  his  own  story  of  his  debts. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

LILT  DALE  GOES  TO  LONDO\. 

One  morning  toward  the  end  of  March  the 
'squire  rapped  at  the  window  of  the  drawing-room 
of  the  Small  House,  in  which  Mrs.  Dale  and 
her  daughter  were  sitting.  He  had  a  letter  in 
his  hand,  and  both  Lily  and  her  mother  knew 
that  he  had  come  down  to  speak  about  the  con- 
tents of  the  letter.  It  was  always  a  sign  of 
good-humor  on  the  squire's  part,  this  rapping 
at  the  window.  When  it  became  necessary  to 
him  in  his  gloomy  moods  to  see  his  sistei'-in- 
law  he  would  write  a  note  to  her,  and  she  would 
go  across  to  him  at  the  Great  House.  At  other 
times,  if,  as  Lily  would  say,  he  was  just  then 
neither  sweet  nor  bitter,  he  would  go  round  to 
the  front  door  and  knock,  and  be  admitted  after 
the  manner  of  ordinary  peojilc ;  but  when  he 
was  minded  to  make  himself  thoroughly  jdeas- 
ant  he  would  come  and  rap  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  as  he  was  doing  now. 

"I'll  let  you  in,  uncle  ;  wait  a  moment,"  said 
Lily,  as  she  unbolted  the  window  which  opened 
out  upon  the  lawn.  "It's  dreadfully  cold,  so 
come  in  as  fast  as  you  can." 

"It's  not  cold  at  all,"  said  the  squire.  "It"s 
more  like  spring  than  any  morning  we've  had 
yet.      I've  been  sitting  without  a  fire." 

"  You  won't  catch  us  without  one  for  the  next 
two  months;  will  he,  mamma?  You  have  got 
a  letter,  uncle.     Is  it  for  us  to  see?" 

"Well — yes;  I've  brought  it  down  to  show 
you.  Mary,  what  do  you  think  is  going  to  hap- 
pen ?" 

A  terrible  idea  occurred  to  Mrs.  Dale  at  that 
moment,  but  she  was  much  too  wise  to  give  it  ex- 
pression. Could  it  be  possible  that  the  squire 
was  going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  and  get  mar- 
ried? "  I  am  very  bad  at  guessing,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale.      "You  had  better  tell  us." 

"Bernard  is  going  to  be  married,"  said  Lily. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?"  said  the  squire. 

"  I  didn't  know.      I  only  guessed." 

"  Tlicn  you've  guessed  right,"  said  the  squire, 


a  little  annoyed  at  having  his  news  thus  taken 
out  of  his  mouth. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Mrs.  Dale ;  "and  I 
know  from  your  manner  that  you  like  the 
match." 

"  Well — yes.  I  don't  know  the  young  lady, 
but  I  think  that  upon  the  whole  I  do  like  it. 
It's  quite  time,  you  know,  that  he  got  married," 

"  He's  not  thirty  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"He  will  be  in  a  month  or  two." 

"  And  who  is  it,  uncle  ?" 

"Well — &s  you're  so  good  at  guessing,  I  sup- 
pose you  can  guess  that." 

"It's  not  that  Miss  Partridge  he  used  to  talk 
about?" 

"No;  it's  not  Miss  Partridge — I'm  glad  to 
say.  I  don't  believe  that  the  Partridges  have  a 
shilling  among  them." 

"Then  I  suppose  it's  an  heiress?"  said  Mrs. 
Dale. 

"  No ;  not  an  heiress ;  but  she  will  have 
some  money  of  her  own.  And  she  has  connec- 
tions in  Barsetshirc,  which  makes  it  pleasant." 

"Connections  in  Barsetshirel  Who  can  it 
be?"  said  Lily. 

"  Her  name  is  Emily  Dunstable,"  said  the 
Squire,  "and  she  is  the  niece  of  that  Miss  Dun- 
stable who  married  Dr.  Thorne  and  who  lives 
at  Chaldicotes." 

"  She  was  the  woman  who  had  millions  ujion 
millions,"  said  Lily,  "all  got  by  selling  oint- 
ment." 

"Never  mind  how  it  was  got,"  said  the  squire, 
angrily.  "Miss  Dunstable  married  most  respect- 
ably, and  has  always  made  a  most  excellent  use 
of  her  money." 

"And  will  Bernard's  wife  have  all  her  for- 
tune?" asked  Lily. 

"  She  will  have  twenty  thousand  pounds  the 
day  she  marries,  and  I  suppose  that  will  be  all." 

"And  quite  enough,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"It  seems  that  old  Dr.  Dunstable,  as  he  was 
called,  who,  as  Lily  says,  sold  the  ointment, 
quarreled  with  his  son  or  with  his  son's  widow, 
and  left  nothing  either  to  her  or  her  child. 
The  mother  is  dead,  and  the  aunt,  Dr.  Thome's 
wife,  has  always  provided  for  the  child.  That's 
how  it  is,  and  Bernard  is  going  to  marry  her. 
They  are  to  be  married  at  Chaldicotes  in  May." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"I've  known  Dr.  Thorne  for  the  last  forty 
years  ;"  and  the  squire  now  spoke  in  a  low,  mel- 
ancholy tone.  "I've  written  to  him  to  say  that 
the  young  people  shall  have  the  old  place  up 
there  to  themselves  if  they  like  it." 

"  What !  and  turn  you  out  ?"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"That  would  not  matter,"  said  the  squire. 

"You'd  have  to  come  and  live  with  us, "said 
Lily,  taking  him  by  the  hand. 

"It  doesn't  matter  much  now  where  I  live," 
said  the  squire. 

"Bernard  will  never  consent  to  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale. 

"I  wonder  whether  she'll  ask  me  to  be  a 
bridemaid?"  said  Lily.  "They  say  that  Chal- 
dicotes is  such  a  pretty  place,  and  I  should  see 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


195 


TUFA'   PEONOUNCKD   UEB   TO   liE   VERY   MUCH   LIKE   A   lAUT. 


all  the  Barsetshire  people  that  I've  been  hear- 
in.!,'  about  from  Grace.  Poor  Grace  !  I  know 
that  the  Grantlys  and  the  Thornes  are  very  in- 
timate. Fancy  Bernard  liaving  twenty  thou- 
s:mil  pounds  from  the  making  of  ointment!" 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  where  it  comes 
fiom  ?"  said  the  squire,  half  in  anger. 

"Not  in  the  least ;  only  it  sounds  so  odd.     I 
do  hope  she's  a  nice  girl." 

'riicn  the  squire  produced  a  photograph  of/ 
Emily  Dunstable  which  his  nephew  had  sent  tcf 


him,  and  they  all  prononnced  her  to  be  very 
pretty,  to  be  very  much  like  a  lady,  and  to  be 
very  good-humored.  Tiie  squire  was  evidently 
pleased  with  the  match,  and  therefore  the  ladies 
were  pleased  also.  Bernard  Dale  was  the  heir 
to  the  estate,  and  his  marriage  was  of  course  a 
matter  of  moment ;  and  as  on  such  properties 
as  that  of  Allington  money  is  always  wanted, 
the  squire  may  be  forgiven  for  the  great  import- 
ance which  he  attached  to  the  young  lady's  for- 
tune.    "Bernard  could  hardly  have  married 


196 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


prudently  without  any  money,"  he  said,  "un- 
less he  had  chosen  to  wait  till  I  am  gone." 

"And  then  he  would  have  been  too  old  to 
marry  at  all,"  said  Lily. 

l?ut  the  sijuire's  budget  of  news  had  not  yet 
been  enij)ticd.  lie  told  them  soon  afterward 
that  he  himself  had  been  summoned  up  to  Lon- 
don. Bernard  had  written  to  liini,  begging  him 
to  come  and  see  the  young  lady  ;  and  tiie  fam- 
ily lawyer  had  written  also,  saying  that  his  ])res- 
ence  in  town  would  be  very  desirable.  "It  is 
very  troublesome,  of  course;  but  I  shall  "go," 
said  the  sipiire.  "It  will  do  you  nil  tiie  good 
in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Dale;  "and  of  course 
you  ought  to  know  her  personally  before  the 
marriage."  And  then  the  squire  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it  and  declared  his  full  ])urpose.  "I 
was  thinking  tiiat,  perhajis,  Lily  would  not  ob- 
ject to  go  up  to  London  with  me." 

"Oh,  uncle  Christojiher,  I  should  so  like  it!" 
said  Lily. 

"If  your  mamma  does  not  object." 

"Mamma  never  objects  to  any  thing.  I 
should  like  to  see  her  objecting  to  that!"  And 
Lily  shook  her  head  at  her  mother. 

"Bernard  says  that  Miss  Dunstable  particu- 
larly wants  to  see  you." 

' '  Does  she,  indeed  ?  And  I  particularly  want 
to  see  Miss  Dunstable.  How  nice  !  Mamma, 
I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  in  London  since  I 
wore  short  frocks.  Do  you  remember  taking 
lis  to  the  pantomime  ?  Only  tliink  how  many 
years  ago  that  is.  I'm  quite  sure  it's  time  that 
Bernard  sliould  get  married.  Uncle,  I  hope 
you're  prepared  to  take  me  to  the  play." 

"  We  must  see  about  that !" 

"  And  the  opera,  and  Madame  Tussaud,  and 
the  Horticultural  Gardens,  and  tiie  new  conjur- 
or, who  makes  a  woman  lie  upon  notiiing.  The 
idea  of  my  going  to  London  !  And  then  I  sup- 
pose I  slmll  be  one  of  the  bridemaids.  I  de- 
clare a  new  vista  of  life  is  opening  out  to  me ! 
Mamma,  you  mustn't  be  dull  while  I'm  away. 
It  won't  be  very  long,  I  suppose,  uncle  ?" 

"  About  a  month,  probaijly,"  said  the  squire. 

"  Oil,  mamma  ;   what  will  you  do':'" 

"Never  mind  me,  Lily." 

"You  must  get  Bell  and  the  children  to  come. 
But  I  can  not  imagine  living  away  from  home  a 
month.  I  was  never  away  from  home  a  month 
in  my  life." 

And  Lily  did  go  up  to  town  witii  her  uncle, 
two  days  only  having  been  allowed  to  her  for 
her  prei)arations.  Tiiere  was  very  mueii  for 
her  to  think  of  in  such  a  journey.  It  was  not 
only  that  she  would  see  Emily  Dunstable  who 
was  to  be  her  cousin's  wife,  and  that  she  would 
go  to  the  Jilay,  and  visit  the  new  conjuror's  en- 
tertainment, but  that  she  would  be  in  the  same 
city  both  witli  Adolphus  Crosbie  and  with  John 
Eames.  Not  having  personal  experience  of  the 
wideness  of  London,  and  of  the  wilderness 
which  it  is — of  the  distance  which  is  set  tliere 
between  persons  who  are  not  purposely  brought 
together — it  seemed  to  her  fancy  as  though  for 
this  month  of  her  absence  from  home  she  would 


be  brought  into  close  contiguity  with  both  her  | 
lovers.      She  had  hitherto  felt  herself  to  be  at 
any  rate  safe  in  her  fortress  at  Allington.     When 
Crosbie  had  written  to  her  mother,  making  a  i 
renewed  offer  which  had  been  rejected,  Lily  had , 
felt  that  she  certainly  need  not  see  him  unless  it  i 
])leased  her  to  do  so.      He  could  hardly  force 
liimself  ni)on  her  at  Allington.     And  as  to  John 
Eames,  though  he  would,  of  course,  be  welcome 
at  Allington  as  often  as  he  jtleased  to  show  him- 
self, still  there  was  a  security  in  the  place.      She  .; 
was  so  much  at  home  there  that  she  could  al- 
ways bo  mistress  of  tlie  occasion.      She  knew 
that  slie  could  talk  to  him  at  Allington  as  though  ; 
from  ground  jiigher  than  that  on  which  he  stood  i 
himself;   but  she  felt  that  this  would  hardly  be; 
the  case  if  she  should  chance  to  meet  him  in 
London.     Crosbie  jirobably  would  not  come  in, 
her  way.     Crosbie,  siie  thought — and  she  blushed 
for  the  man  she  loved  as  the  idea  came  across  i 
her  mind — would  be  afraid  of  meeting  her  uncle. 
But  John  Eames  would  certainly  find  her  ;  and| 
she  was  led  by  the  experience  of  latter  days  tO| 
imagine  that  John  would  never  cross  her  path, 
without  renewing  his  attempts. 

But  she  said  no  word  of  all  this,  even  to  her 
mother.  She  was  contented  to  confine  her  out- 
spoken expectations  to  Emily  Dunstable,  and 
the  play,  and  the  conjurer.  "The  chances  are, 
ten  to  one  against  my  liking  her,  xnamma,"  Bhe| 
said. 

"I  don't  see  that,  my  dear." 

"I  feel  to  be  too  old  to  think  that  I  shall, 
ever  like  any  more  new  people.  Three  years 
ago  I  should  have  been  quite  sure  that  I  should 
love  a  new  cousin.  It  would  have  been  like, 
having  a  new  dress.  But  I've  come  to  think  that  ■ 
an  old  dress  is  the  most  comfortable,  and  an  old 
cousin  certainly  the  best." 
/  The  squire  had  had  taken  for  them  a  gloomy, 
'lodging  in  Sackville  Street.  Lodgings  in  Lon-i 
don  are  always  gloomy.  Gloomy  colors  wear, 
('better  than  bright  ones  for  curtains  and  carpets,, 
and  the  keepers  of  lodgings  in  London  seem  to 
think  that  a  certain  dinginess  of  appearance  is, 
j-espectable.  I  never  saw  a  London  lodging  in, 
which  any  attempt  at  cheerfulness  had  been 
made,  and  I  do  not  tliink  that  any  such  attempt,^ 
if  made,  would  pay.  The  lodging-seeker  would, 
be  frightened  and  dismayed,  and  would  uncon- 
sciously be  led  to  fancy  that  something  was 
wrong.  Ideas  of  burglars  and  improper  persons, 
would  ])resent  themselves.  Tliis  is  so  certainly, 
the  case  tliat  I  doubt  whetlier  any  well-eondi-, 
tioned  lodging-house  matron  could  be  induced  to 
show  rooms  that  were  prettily  drajied  or  pleas-, 
antly  colored.  Tlie  big  drawing-room  and  two, 
large  bedrooms  which  the  s(piire  took  were  all 
that  was  jiroper,  and  were  as  brown,  and  as, 
gloomy,  and  as  ill-suited  for  the  comforts  of  or- 
dinary life  as  though  they  had  been  prepared  for, 
two  prisoners.  But  Lily  was  not  so  ignorant  i 
to  expect  cheerful  lodgings  in  London,  and  was 
satisfied.  "And  what  are  we  to  do  nowT" 
said  Lily,  as  soon  as  they  found  themselves  set-) 
tied.     It   was   still  March,  and  whatever  may 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


197 


have  been  the  nature  of  the  wcatlier  at  Ailing- 
ton,  it  was  very  cokl  in  London.  They  reached 
Sackville  Street  about  five  in  the  evening,  and 
an  hour  was  taken  up  in  unpacking  their  trunks 
and  making  themselves  as  comfortable  as  their 
circumstances  allowed.  "And  now  what  are 
we  to  do?"  said  Lily. 

"  I  told  them  to  have  dinner  for  us  at  half 
past  six." 

"And  what  after  that?  "Won't  Bernard 
come  to  us  to-night?  I  expected  him  to  be 
standing  on  the  dooi--steps  waiting  for  us  with 
his  bride  in  his  hand." 

"I  don't  suppose  Bernard  Avill  be  here  to- 
night," said  the  squire.  "He  did  not  say  that 
he  would  ;  and  as  for  Miss  Dunstable,  I  proni- 
'ised  to  take  you  to  her  aunt's  house  to-mor- 
row." 

■But  I  wanted  to  see  her  to-night.  Well, 
if  course  bridemaids  must  wait  upon  brides. 
And  ladies  with  twenty  thousand  pounds  can't 
"he  expected  to  run  about  like  common  people. 
As  for  Bernard — but  Bernard  never  was  in  a  hur- 
ry."' Tlien  they  dined,  and  when  the  squire 
T.\d  very  nearly  fallen  asleep  over  a  bottle  of 
'ort-wine  which  had  been  sent  in  for  him  from 
-OHIO  neigiiboring  public  house,  Lily  began  to 
\-cl  that  it  was  very  dull.  And  she  looked 
.oiind  the  room,  and  she  thought  that  it  was 
very  ugly.  And  she  calculated  that  thirty  even- 
ings so  spent  would  seem  to  be  very  long.  And 
;!ie  reflected  that  the  hours  were  probably  going 
much  more  quickly  with  Emih^  Dunstable,  who, 
no  doubt,  at  this  moment  had  Bernard  Dale  by 
her  side.  And  then  she  told  herself  that  the 
'lioui-s  were  not  tedious  witli  her  at  home,  while 
sitting  with  her  mother,  with  all  her  daily  oc- 
:apations  within  her  reach.  But  in  so  telling 
iierself  she  took  herself  to  task,  inquiring  of  her- 
self whether  such  an  assurance  was  altogether 
:rae.  "Were  not  the  hours  sometimes  tedious 
jvcn  at  home  ?  And  in  this  way  her  mind 
Aaiidercd  oti"  to  thouglits  upon  life  in  general, 
md  she  repeated  to  herself  over  and  over  again 
he  two  words  which  slie  had  told  John  Eames 
hat  she  would  write  in  her  journal.  The  reader 
viU  remember  those  two  words — Old  Maid. 
A.iid  she  had  written  them  in  her  book,  making 
-^ach  letter  a  capital,  and  round  them  she  had 
Irawn  a  scroll,  ornamented  after  her  own  fash- 
on,  and  she  had  added  the  date  in  quaintly 
ornied  figures — for  in  such  matters  Lily  had 
■onic  little  skill  and  a  dash  of  fun  to  direct  it; 
Hid  she  had  inscribed  below  it  an  Italian  motto 
—""Who  goes  softly,  goes  safely;"  and  above 
lev  work  of  art  she  had  put  a  heading — "As 
irranged  by  Fate  for  L.  D."  Now  she  thought 
'f  all  tills,  and  reflected  whether  Emily  Dun- 
talile  was  in  truth  very  happy.  Presently  the 
cars  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  got  up  and 
.vent  to  the  window,  as  though  she  were  afraid 
hat  her  uncle  might  wake  and  see  them.  And 
'is  she  looked  out  on  the  blank  street  she  mut- 
!;ered  a  word  or  two — "Dear  motlier!  Dear- 
;Jst  mother!"  Then  the  door  was  opened,  and 
laer  cousin  Bernard  announced  himself.     She 


had  not  heard  his  knock  at  the  door  as  she 
had  been  thinking  of  the  two  words  in  her 
book. 

"  What ;  Bernard  ! — ah,  yes,  of  course,"  said 
the  squire,  rubbing  his  eyes  as  he  strove  to  wake 
himself.  "  I  wasn't  sure  you  would  come,  l)ut 
I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  I  wish  you  joy  with 
all  my  heart — with  all  my  heart." 

"Of  coiu'se  I  should  come,"  said  Bernard. 
"Dear  Lily,  this  is  so  good  of  you!  Emily  is 
so  delighted."  Then  Lily  sjjokc  her  congratu- 
lations warmly,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  a  tear 
in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  thorouglily  hajjjiy  as 
she  sat  by  her  cousin's  side  and  listened  to  his 
raptures  about  Emily  Dunstable.  "And  you 
will  be  so  fond  of  her  aunt,"  he  said. 

"But  is  she  not  awfully  rich  ?"  said  Lily. 

"Frightfully  rich,"  said  Bernard  ;  "but  real- 
ly you  would  hardly  find  it  out  if  nobody  told 
you.  Of  course  she  lives  in  a  big  house,  and 
has  a  heap  of  servants  ;  but  she  can't  help  that." 

"I  hate  a  heap  of  servants,"  said  Lily. 

Then  there  came  another  knock  at  the  door, 
and  who  should  enter  the  room  but  John 
Eames.  Lily  for  a  moment  was  taken  aback, 
but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  She  had  been 
thinking  so  much  of  him  that  his  presence  dis- 
turbed her  for  an  instant.  "He  probably  will 
not  know  that  I  am  here,"  she  had  said  to  her- 
self; but  she  had  not  yet  been  three  hours  in 
London,  and  he  was  already  with  her!  At  first 
he  hardly  spoke  to  her,  addressing  himself  to 
the  squire.  "Lady  Julia  told  me  you  were  to 
be  here,  and  as  I  start  for  the  Continent  early 
to-morrow  morning  I  thought  you  would  let  me 
come  and  see  you  before  I  went." 

"I'm  always  glad  to  see  you,  John,"  said 
the  squire — "  very  glad.  And  so  you're  going 
abroad,  are  you?" 

Then  Johnny  congratulated  his  old  acquaint- 
ance, Bernard  Dale,  as  to  his  coming  marriage, 
and  explained  to  them  how  Lady  Julia  in  one 
of  her  letters  had  told  him  all  about  it,  and  had 
even  given  him  the  number  in  Sackville  Street. 
"  I  suppose  she  learned  it  from  you,  Lily,"  said 
the  squire.  "  Yes,  uncle,  she  did."  And  then 
there  came  questions  as  to  John's  projected  jour- 
ney to  the  Continent,  and  he  exjdained  that  he 
was  going  on  law-business,  on  belialf  of  Mr. 
Crawley,  to  catch  the  dean  and  Mrs.  Arabin,  if 
it  might  be  possible.  "You  see.  Sir,  Mr.  Too- 
good,  who  is  Mr.  Crawley's  cousin,  and  also  his 
lawyer,  is  my  cousin,  too ;  and  that's  why  I'm 
going."  And  still  there  had  been  hardly  a  word 
spoken  between  him  and  Lily. 

"  But  you're  not  a  lawyer,  John  ;  are  you?" 
said  the  squire. 

"No.     I'm  not  a  lawyer  myself." 

"Nor  a  lawyer's  clerk." 

"Certainly  not  a  law3''er's  clerk,"  said  John- 
ny, laughing. 

"  Then  why  should  you  go?"  asked  Bernard 
Dale. 

Then  Johnny  had  to  explain  ;  and  in  doing 
so  he  became  very  eloquent  as  to  the  hardships 
of ^Ir.  Crawlev's  case.      "You  see,  Sir,  nobody 


198 


TUE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


can  possibly  believe  that  such  a  man  as  that 
stole  twenty  pounds. " 

"  I  do  not  for  one,"  said  Lily. 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  he  did ! "  said 
the  squire. 

"I'm  (iiiite  sure  he  didn't,"  said  Johnny, 
wanning  to  liis  subject.  "It  couldn't  be  that 
such  a  man  as  that  should  become  a  thief  all  at 
on;e.     It's  not  human  nature,  Sir;  is  it?" 

"It  is  very  hard  to  know  what  is  human  na- 
ture," said  tlie  squire. 

"  It's  the  general  opinion  down  in  Barsetsliire 
that  he  did  steal  it,"  said  Bernard.  ''Dr.  Tliorne 
was  one  of  the  magistrates  who  committed  him, 
and  I  know  he  thinks  so." 

"I  don't  blame  the  magistrates  in  the  least," 
said  Johnny. 

"That's  kind  of  you,"  said  the  squire. 

"  Of  course  you'll  laugh  at  me.  Sir ;  but  you'll 
see  tliat  we  shall  come  out  right.  There's  some 
mystery  in  it  of  which  we  haven't  got  at  the 
bottom  as  yet ;  and  if  there  is  any  body  that  can 
help  us  it's  the  dean." 

"  If  the  dean  knows  any  thing,  why  has  he 
not  written  and  told  what  he  knows  ?"  said  the 
squire. 

"  That's  what  I  can't  say.  The  dean  has  not 
had  an  opj)ortunity  of  writing  since  he  heard — 
even  if  he  lias  yet  heard — that  Mr.  Crawley  is 
to  be  tried.  And  then  he  and  Mrs.  Arabin  are 
not  together.  It's  a  long  story,  and  I  will  not 
trouble  you  with  it  all ;  but  at  any  rate  I'm 
going  off  to-morrow.  Lily,  can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  in  Florence  ?" 

"In  Florence?"  said  Lily;  "and  are  you 
really  going  to  Florence  ?     IIow  I  envy  you  !" 

"And  who  pays  your  expenses?"  said  the 
squire. 

"  Well ;  as  to  my  expenses,  they  are  to  be  paid 
by  a  person  who  won't  raise  any  unpleasant 
questions  about  tiie  amount." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the 
squire. 

"  He  means  himself,"  said  Lily. 

"  Is  he  going  to  do  it  out  of  his  own  pocket?" 

"  He  is,"  said  Lily,  looking  at  her  lover. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  trip  for  my  own  fun," 
said  Johnny,  "and  I  shall  pick  up  evidence  on 
the  road  as  I'm  going — that's  all." 

Then  Lily  began  to  take  an  active  part  in  the 
conversation,  and  a  great  deal  was  said  about 
Mr.  Crawley  and  about  Grace,  and  Lily  de- 
clared tliat  she  would  be  very  anxious  to  hear 
any  news  which  Jolin  Eames  miglit  be  able  to 
send.  "You  know,  John,  how  fond  we  are  of 
your  cousin  Grace  at  Allington.  Are  we  not, 
uncle?" 

"Yes  indeed,"  said  the  squire.  "  I  thought 
her  a  very  nice  girl." 

"  If  you  should  be  able  to  learn  any  thing 
that  may  be  of  use,  John,  how  happy  you  will 
be." 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  said  Johnny. 

"And  I  think  it  so  good  of  you  to  go,  John. 
But  it  is  just  like  you.  You  were  always  gen- 
erous."    Soon  after  that  he  got  up  and  went. 


It  was  very  clear  to  liim  that  he  would  have  no 
moment  in  which  to  say  a  word  alone  to  Lily ; 
and  if  he  could  find  such  a  moment  what  gooii 
would  such  a  word  do  liim  ?  It  was  as  yet  but 
a  few  weeks  since  she  had  positively  refused  him. 
And  he  too  remembered  very  well  those  twu 
words  which  slie  had  told  him  that  she  would 
write  in  her  book.  As  he  had  been  coming  to 
the  house  he  had  told  himself  that  his  coming 
would  be — could  be  of  no  use.  And  yet  he  was 
disappointed  with  the  result  of  his  visit,  although 
she  had  spoken  to  him  so  sweetly. 

' '  I  suppose  you'll  be  gone  when  I  come  back  ?" 
he  said. 

"We  shall  be  here  a  month,"  said  the 
squire. 

"I  shall  be  back  long  before  that,  I  hope," 
said  Johnny.  "  Good-by,  Sir.  Good-by,  Dale. 
Good-by,  Lily."  And  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
her. 

"  Good-by,  John."  And  then  she  added,  al- 
most in  a  whisper,  "I  think  you  are  very,  very 
right  to  go."  IIow  could  he  fail  after  that  to 
hope  as  he  walked  home  that  she  might  still  re- 
lent. And  she  also  thought  much  of  him,  but 
her  thoughts  of  him  made  her  cling  more  firmly 
than  ever  to  the  two  words.  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  marry  him  ;  but,  at  least,  she 
would  not  break  his  heart  by  becoming  the  wife 
of  any  one  else.  Soon  after  this  Bernard  Dale 
went  also.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  had  been  well 
l)leased  at  seeing  John  Eames  become  suddenly 
the  hero  of  the  hour.  When  a  young  mati  is 
going  to  perform  so  important  an  act  as  that  of 
mari-iage  he  is  apt  to  think  that  he  ought  to  be 
the  hero  of  the  hour  himself — at  any  rate  among 
his  own  family. 

Early  on  the  next  morning  Lily  was  taken 
ly  her  uncle  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Thorne  and  to 
'sec  Emily  Dunstable.  Bernard  was  to  meet 
them  there,  but  it  had  been  arranged  that  they 
should  reach  the  house  first.  "  Tiiere  is  nothing 
so  absurd  as  these  introductions,"  Bernard  hat^ 
said.  "You  go  and  look  at  her,  and  wher 
you've  had  time  to  look  at  her  then  I'll  come !' 
So  the  squire  and  Lily  went  off  to  look  at  Emil) 
Dunstable. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  she  lives  in  thn 
house,"  said  Lily,  when  tiic  cab  was  stopped  be- 
fore an  enormous  mansion  in  one  of  the  mos 
fashionable  of  the  London  squares. 

"I  believe  she  does,"  said  the  squire. 

"  I  never  shall  be  able  to  speak  to  any  bodj! 
living  in  such  a  house  as  that,"  said  Lily.  ".^1 
duke  couldn't  have  any  thing  grander." 

"Mrs.  Thorne  is  richer  than  half  the  dukes,^ 
said  the  squire.  Then  the  door  was  opened  M 
a  ])orter,  and  Lily  found  herself  within  the  hall 
Every  thing  was  very  great  and  very  magnifi 
cent,  and,  as  she  thought,  very  uncomfortable! 
Presently  she  heard  a  loud  jovial  voice  on  tb 
stairs.  ' '  Mr.  Dale,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you 
And  tills  is  your  niece,  Lily.  Come  up,  mi 
dear.  There  is  a  young  woman  up  stairs  dyinj 
to  embrace  you.  Never  mind  the  imibrelia.  Ptr 
it  down  any  where.    1  want  to  have  a  look  at  yoni 


THE  LAST  CllliONlCLE  OF  BARSET. 


199 


because  Barnard  swears  that  you're  so  pretty." 
This  was  Mrs.  Thorno,  once  Miss  Dunstable,  the 
richest  woman  in  England,  and  the  aunt  oV 
Bernard's  bride.  The  reader  may  perhaps  ref 
member  the  advice  which  she  once  gave  to  Ma- 
jor Grantiy,  and  her  enthusiasm  on  that  occa- 
sion. "There  she  is,  Mr.  Dale  ;  what  do  you 
think  of  her?"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  as  she  opened 
the  door  of  a  small  sitting-room  wcdyed  in  be- 
tween two  large  saloons,  in  which  Emily  Dun- 
stable was  sitting. 

"Aunt  Martha,  how  can  you  be  so  ridicu- 
lous?" said  the  young  lady. 

"I  suppose  it  is  ridiculous  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion to  which  one  really  wants  to  have  an  an- 
swer," said  Mrs.  Thorne.  "But  Mr.  Dale  has, 
in  truth,  come  to  inspect  yon,  and  to  form  an 
opinion  ;  and,  in  honest  truth,  I  shall  be  very 
anxious  to  know  what  he  thinks — though,  of 
course,  he  won't  tell  me." 

The  old  man  took  the  girl  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks.  "I  have  no  doubt 
you'll  find  out  what  I  think,"  he  said,  "  though 
I  sliould  never  tell  you." 

"  I  generally  do  find  out  what  people  think," 
she  said.      "  And  so  you're  Lily  Dale  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'm  Lily  Dale." 

"  I  have  so  often  heard  of  you,  particularly  of 
late ;  for  j'ou  must  know  that  a  certain  Major 
Grantiy  is  a  friend  of  mine.  We  must  take 
care  that  that  affair  comes  off  all  right,  must 
we  not?" 

"  I  hope  it  will."  Then  Lily  turned  to  Emi- 
ly Dunstable,  and,  taking  her  hand,  went  up 
and  sat  beside  her,  while  Mrs.  Tiiorne  and  the 
squire  talked  of  the  coming  marriage.  "  How 
long  have  3'ou  been  engaged  ?"  said  Lily. 

"  Really  engaged,  about  three  weeks.  I 
tliink  it  is  not  more  than  three  weeks  ago." 

' '  How  very  discreet  Bernard  has  been  I  He 
never  told  us  a  word  about  it  while  it  was  going 
on." 

"Men  never  do  tell,  I  suppose,"  said  Emily 
Dunstable. 

"  Of  course  you  love  him  very  dearly  ?"  said 
Lily,  not  knowing  wimt  else  to  say. 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

•'  So  do  we.  You  know  he's  almost  a  brother 
to  us;  that  is,  to  me  and  my  sister.  We  never 
liad  a  brother  of  our  own."  And  so  the  morn- 
ing was  passed  till  Lily  was  told  by  her  uncle  to 
come  away,  and  was  told  also  by  Mrs.  Thorne 
that  she  w^as  to  dine  with  them  in  the  square  on 
that  day.  "You  must  not  be  surprised  that  my 
husband  is  not  here,"  she  said.  "  He  is  a  very 
odd  sort  of  man,  and  he  never  comes  to  London 
if  he  can  help  it." 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

THE    BATSWATER    E03IANCE. 

Eames  had  by  no  means  done  his  work  for 
,.  ithat  evening  when  he  left  Mr.  Dale  and  Lily  at 
[i^  [their  lodgings.  He  had  other  business  on  hand 
Pj   to  which  he  had  promised  to  give  attention,  and 


another  person  to  see  who  would  welcome  his 

coming  quite  as  warmly,  though  by  no  means 
as  pleasjuUly,  as  Lily  Dale.  It  was  then  just 
nine  o'clock,  and  as  he  had  told  Miss  Demo- 
lines — Madalina  we  may  as  well  call  her  now 
— that  he  would  be  in  Ponhcstcr  Terrace  bv 
nine  at  the  latest,  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to 
make  haste.  He  got  into  a  cab,  and  bid  the 
cabman  drive  hard,  and  lighting  a  cigar,  began 
to  inquire  of  himself  whether  it  was  well  for  him 
to  hurry  away  from  the  presence  of  Lily  Dale 
to  that  of  Madalina  Demolines.  He  felt  that 
he  was  half  ashamed  of  what  he  was  doing. 
Though  he  declared  to  himself  over  and  over 
again  that  he  never  had  said  a  word,  and  never 
intended  to  say  a  word,  to  Madalina,  which  all 
the  world  might  not  hear,  yet  he  knew  that  he 
was  doing  amiss.  He  was  doing  amiss,  and 
half  repented  it,  and  yet  he  was  half  proud  of  it. 
He  was  most  anxious  to  be  able  to  give  himself 
credit  for  his  constancy  to  Lily  Dale  ;  to  be  able 
to  feel  that  he  was  steadfast  in  his  passion  ;  and 
yet  he  liked  the  idea  of  amusing  himself  with 
hisBayswater  romance,  as  he  would  call  it,  and 
was  not  without  something  of  conceit  as  he 
thought  of  the  progress  he  had  made  in  it. 
"  Love  is  one  tiling  and  amusement  is  another," 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  puffed  the  cigar-smoke 
out  of  his  mouth  ;  and  in  his  heart  he  was  proud 
of  his  own  capacity  for  enjoyment.  He  thought 
it  a  fine  thing,  although  at  the  same  moment  he 
knew  it  to  be  an  evil  thing — this  hurrying  away 
from  the  young  lady  whom  he  really  loved  to  an- 
other as  to  whom  he  thought  it  very  likely  that 
he  should  be  called  upon  to  pretend  to  love  her. 
And  he  sang  a  little  song  as  he  went:  "If  she 
be  not  fair  for  me,  what  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?" 
That  was  intended  to  ap]jly  to  Lily,  and  was 
used  as  an  excuse  for  his  fickleness  in  going  to 
Miss  Demolines.  And  he  was,  jierhajis,  too,  a 
little  conceited  as  to  his  mission  to  the  Conti- 
nent. Lily  had  told  him  that  she  was  very 
glad  that  he  was  going  ;  that  she  thought  him 
very  right  to  go.  The  words  had  been  pleas- 
ant to  his  cars,  and  Lily  had  never  looked  j-ret- 
ticr  in  his  eyes  than  when  she  had  spoken  them. 
Jolinny,  therefore,  was  rather  proud  of  himself 
as  he  sat  in  the  cab  smoking  his  cigar.  He 
had,  moreover,  beaten  his  old  enemy  Sir  Raffle 
Buttle  in  another  contest,  and  he  felt  that  the 
world  was  smiling  on  hiiu — that  the  world  was 
smiling  on  him  in  spite  of  his  cruel  fate  in  the 
matter  of  his  real  lovesuit. 

There  was  a  mystery  about  the  Bayswater 
romance  which  was  not  without  its  allurement, 
and  a  portion  of  the  mystery  was  connected  with 
Madalina's  mother.  Lady  Demolines  was  very 
rarely  seen,  and  John  Eames  could  not  quite  un- 
derstand what  was  the  manner  of  life  of  that 
unfortunate  lady.  Her  daughter  usually  spoke 
of  her  Avith  affectionate  regret  as  being  unable 
to  appear  on  that  particular  occasion  on  account 
of  some  passing  malady.  She  was  suft'eiing  from 
a  nervous  headache,  or  was  afflicted  with  bron- 
chitis, or  had  been  touched  with  rheumatism, 
so  that  she  was  seldom  on  the  scene  when  John- 


200 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ny  was  passing  his  time  at  Porchestei"  Terrace. 
Ami  yet  he  heard  of  her  dining  out,  and  going 
to  Jilays  and  ojwras ;  and  wiicn  lie  did  chance 
to  sec  her  he  found  that  she  was  a  sprightly 
old  woman  enough.  I  will  not  venture  to  say 
that  he  much  regretted  the  ahsence  of  Lady 
Dcniolincs,  or  tliat  he  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
im]ii-oin-icty  of  being  left  alone  with  tlie  gentle 
Jladalina;  but  the  customary  ahsence  of  the 
elder  lady  was  an  incident  in  the  romance  which 
did  not  fail  to  strike  him. 

Jlailalina  was  alone  when  he  was  shown  up 
into  t!ic  drawing-room  on  the  evening  of  which 
we  arc  sjieaking. 

"Mr.  Karnes,"  she  said,  "will  you  kindly 
look  at  that  watch  which  is  lying  on  the  table." 
She  looked  full  at  him  with  her  great  eyes  wide 
open,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  was  intended  to 
show  him  that  she  was  aggrieved. 

"Yes,  I  see  it,"  said  John,  looking  down  on 
Miss  Dcmolines's  little  gold  Geneva  watch,  with 
which  he  had  already  made  sufficient  acquaint- 
ance to  know  that  it  was  worth  nothing.  ' '  Shall 
I  give  it  you  ?" 

"No,  Mr.  Eamcs;  let  it  remain  there,  that 
it  may  remind  me,  if  it  does  not  remind  you, 
by  how  long  a  time  you  have  broken  your  word." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  couldn't  help  it — upon 
my  honor  I  couldn't." 

"Upon  your  honor,  Mr.  Eames  !" 

"I  was  obliged  to  go  and  see  a  friend  who 
has  just  come  to  town  from  my  part  of  the  coun- 
try.'"' 

"That  is  the  friend,  I  suppose,  of  whom  I 
have  heard  from  Maria."  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
Conway  Dalrymple  had  not  been  so  guarded  as 
he  should  have  been  in  some  of  his  conversa- 
tions with  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  and  that  a 
word  or  t\vo  had  escaped  from  him  as  to  the  love 
of  John  Eames  for  Lily  Dale. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  may  have  heard," 
said  Johnny,  "but  I  was  obliged  to  see  these 
people  before  I  left  town.  There  is  going  to  be 
a  marriage  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Who  is  going  to  be  married?" 

"  One  Captain  Dale  is  going  to  be  married  to 
one  Miss  Dunstable." 

"Oh!  And  as  to  one  Miss  Lily  Dale — is 
she  to  be  married  to  any  body?" 

"Not  tliat  I  have  heard  of,"  said  Johnny. 

"She  is  not  going  to  become  the  wife  of  one 
Mr.  John  Eames?" 

He  did  not  wish  to  talk  to  Miss  Demolines 
about  Lily  Dale.  He  did  not  choose  to  disown 
the  imputation  or  to  acknowledge  its  truth. 

"Silence  gives  consent,"  she  said.  "If  it 
be  so,  I  congratulate  you.  I  have  no  doubt  she 
is  a  most  charming  young  woman.  It  is  about 
seven  years,  I  believe,  since  that  little  aftair 
with  Mr.  Crosbie,  and  therefore  that,  I  suppose, 
may  be  considered  as  forgotten." 

"It  is  only  three  years,"  said  Johnny,  an- 
grily. "Besides,  I  don't  know  what  that  has 
to  do  with  it." 

"You  need  not  be  ashamed,"  said  Madalina. 
"  I  have  heard  how  well  you  behaved  on  that 


occasion.  You  were  quite  the  preux  chevalier; 
and  if  any  gentleman  ever  deserved  well  of  a 
lady  you  deserved  well  of  her.  I  wonder  how 
Mr.  Crosbie  felt  when  he  met  you  tiie  other  day 
at  Maria's.  I  had  not  heard  any  tiling  about 
it  then,  or  I  should  have  been  much  more  inter- 
ested in  watching  your  meeting." 

"  I  really  can't  say  how  he  felt." 

"  I  dare  say  not ;  but  I  saw  him  shake  hands 
with  you.     And  so  Lily  Dale  has  come  to  town  ?" 

"Yes — Miss  Dale  is  here  with  heruncle." 

"And  you  are  going  away  to-morrow?" 

"Yes — and  I  am  going  away  to-morrow." 

After  that  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Eames  was  sick  of  it,  and  was  very  anx- 
ious to  change  the  conversation.  Miss  Demo- 
lines was  sitting  in  the  shadow,  away  from  the 
light,  with  her  face  half  hidden  by  her  hands. 
At  last  she  jumped  up,  and  came  round  and 
stood  opposite  to  him.  "I  charge  you  to  tell 
me  truly,  John  Eames,"  she  said,  "whether 
Miss  Lilian  Dale  is  engaged  to  you  as  your  fu- 
ture wife?"  He  looked  up  into  her  face,  but 
made  no  immediate  answer.  Then  she  repeat- 
ed her  demand.  "I  ask  you  whether  you  are 
engaged  to  marry  Miss  Lilian  Dale,  and  I  ex- 
pect a  reply." 

"What  makes  you  ask  me  such  a  question 
as  that?" 

"What  makes  me  ask  you  ?  Do  you  deny  my 
right  to  feel  so  much  interest  in  you  as  to  de- 
sire to  know  whether  you  are  about  to  be  mar- 
ried? Of  course  you  can  decline  to  tell  me  if 
you  choose." 

"  And  if  I  were  to  decline  ?" 

"  I  should  know  then  that  it  was  true,  and  I 
should  think  that  you  were  a  coward." 

"I  don't  see  any  cowardice  in  the  matter. 
One  does  not  talk  about  that  kind  of  thing  to 
every  body." 

"Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Eames,  you  are  com- 
plimentary— indeed  you  are.  To  every  body ! 
I  am  every  body,  am  I  ?  That  is  your  idea  of 
— friendship !  You  may  be  sure  that  after  that 
I  shall  ask  no  further  questions." 

"  I  didn't  lucau  it  in  the  way  you've  taken  it, 
Madalina." 

"  In  what  Avay  did  you  mean  it.  Sir?  Every 
body  !  Mr.  Eames,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  say 
that  I  am  not  well  enoiigli  this  evening  to  bear 
the  company  of — every  body.  I  think  you  had 
better  leave  me.    I  think  that  you  had  better  go." 

"  Arc  you  angry  with  me?" 

"Yes,  I  am — very  angry.  Because  I  have 
condescended  to  feel  an  interest  in  your  wel- 
fare, and  have  asked  you  a  question  which  I 
thought  that  our  intimacy  justified,  you  tell  me 
that  that  is  a  kind  of  thing  that  you  will  not 
talk  about  to — every  body.  I  beg  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  will  not  be  your  every  body.  Mr. 
Eames,  there  is  the  door." 

Things  had  now  become  very  serious.  Hither- 
to Johnny  had  been  seated  comfortably  in  the 
corner  of  a  sofa,  and  had  not  found  himself  bound 
to  move,  though  Miss  Demolines  was  standing 
before  him.     But  now  it  was  absolutely  neces- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  DARSET. 


201 


caiv  that  lie  should  do  something.  He  must 
ritlicr  go,  or  else  he  must  make  entreaty  to  be 
aUowed  to  remain.  Would  it  not  be  expedient 
that  lie  sliould  take  the  lady  at  her  word  and  es- 
(•a]ie  ?  She  was  still  pointing  to  the  door,  and  the 
WA}'  was  open  to  him.  If  he  were  to  walk  out 
iii)\v  of  course  lie  would  never  return,  and  there 
Avould  be  the  end  of  the  Bayswater  romance.  If 
lie  remained  it  might  be  that  the  romance  would 
liLHome  troublesome.  He  got  up  from  his  scat, 
aiul  had  almost  resolved  that  he  would  go.  Had 
i-he  not  somewhat  relaxed  the  majesty  of  her  au- 
-cr  as  he  rose,  had  the  fire  of  her  eye  not  been 
S'linewhat  quenched  and  the  lines  of  her  mouth 
sot'tcned,  I  think  that  he  would  have  gone.  The 
loniance  would  have  been  over,  and  he  would 
June  felt  that  it  had  come  to  an  inglorious  end  ; 
but  it  would  have  been  well  for  him  that  he 
t-hiiuld  have  gone.  Though  the  fire  Avas  some- 
wliat  quenched  and  the  lines  were  somewhat 
softened,  she  was  still  pointing  to  the  door. 
"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  said. 

"  I  do  mean  it — certainly."  , 

"And  this  is  to  be  the  end  of  every  thing?"/ 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  every 
tiling.  It  is  a  very  little  every  thing  to  you,  I 
should  say.  I  do  not  quite  imderstand  your 
every  thing  and  your  every  body." 

"  I  will  go,  if  you  wish  me  to  go,  of  course." 

"I  do  wish  it." 

"  But  before  I  go  you  must  permit  me  to  ex- 
cuse myself.  I  did  not  intend  to  oftend  you. 
I  merely  meant — " 

"You  merely  meant!  Give  me  an  honest 
answer  to  a  downright  question.  Are  you  en- 
gaged to  Miss  Lilian  Dale?" 

"No— I  am  not." 

"Upon  your  honor?" 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  tell  you  a  false- 
hood about  it  ?  What  I  meant  was  that  it  is  a 
kind  of  thing  one  doesn't  like  talking  about, 
merely  because  stories  are  bandied  about.  Peo- 
ple are  so  fond  of  saying  that  this  man  is  en- 
gaged to  that  woman,  and  of  making  up  tales; 
and  it  seems  to  be  so  foolish  to  contradict  such 
things." 

"I^it  you  know  that  you  used  to  be  very 
fond  of  her?" 

He  had  taken  up  his  hat  when  he  had  risen 
from  the  sofli,  and  was  still  standing  with  it 
ready  in  his  hand.  He  was  even  now  half-mind- 
ed to  escape ;  and  the  name  of  Lily  Dale  in  Miss 
Demolines's  mouth  was  so  distasteful  to  him 
that  he  would  have  done  so — he  would  have 
:gone  in  sheer  disgust,  had  she  not  stood  in  his 
way,  so  that  he  could  not  escape  without  mov- 
ing her  or  going  round  behind  the  sofa.  She 
did  not  stir  to  make  way  for  him,  and  it  may 
i  be  that  she  understood  that  he  was  Iier  prisoner 
I  in  spite  of  her  late  command  to  him  to  go.  It 
imay  be,  also,  that  she  understood  his  vexation 
and  the  cause  of  it,  and  that  she  saw  the  expc- 
'  diency  of  leaving  Lily  Dale  alone  for  the  pres- 
ent. At  any  rate,  she  pressed  him  no  more 
upon  the  matter.  ' '  Arc  we  to  be  friends  again  ?" 
she  said-. 

N 


"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Johnny. 

"  There  is  my  hand,  then."  So  Johnny  took 
her  hand  and  pressed  it,  and  held  it  a  little 
while — ^just  long  enough  to  seem  to  give  a  mean- 
ing to  the  action.  "  You  will  get  to  understand 
me  some  daj',"  she  said,  "and  will  learn  that  I 
do  not  like  to  be  reckoned  among  the  every 
bodies  by  those  for  whom  I  really — really — 
really  have  a  regard.  When  I  am  angry,  I  am 
angry." 

"You  were  very  angry  just  now,  when  you 
showed  me  the  way  to  the  door." 

"  And  I  meant  it  too — for  the  minute.  Only 
think — supposing  you  had  gone !  We  should 
never  have  seen  each  other  again  ;  never,  never  I 
What  a  change  one  word  may  make!" 

"  One  word  often  does  make  a  change." 

"Does  it  not?  Just  a  little  'yes,'  or  'no.' 
A  '  no'  is  said  when  a  'yes'  is  meant,  and  then 
there  comes  no  second  chance,  and  what  a 
change  that  may  be  from  bright  hopes  to  deso- 
lation!  Or,  worse  again,  a  'yes'  is  said  when 
a  '  no'  should  be  said — when  the  speaker  knows 
that  it  should  be  '  no.'  What  a  difference  that 
'  no'  makes !  When  one  thinks  of  it  one  won- 
ders that  a  woman  should  ever  say  any  thing 
but  '  no.'" 

"They  never  did  say  any  thing  else  to  me," 
said  Johnny. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  dare  say  the  truth  is 
you  never  asked  any  body." 

"  Did  any  body  ever  ask  you  ?" 

"What  would  you  give  to  know?  But  I 
will  tell  you  frankly — yes.  And  once — once  I 
thought  that  my  answer  would  not  have  been 
a  'no.' " 

"But  you  changed  your  mind  ?" 

"When  the  moment  came  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  say  the  word  that  should  rob  me  of  my 
liberty  forever.  I  had  said  '  no'  to  him  often 
enough  before — poor  fellow !  and  on  this  occa- 
sion he  told  me  that  he  asked  for  the  last  time. 
'  I  shall  not  give  myself  another  chance,'  he  said, 
'  for  I  shall  be  on  board  ship  within  a  week.'  I 
merely  bade  him  good-by.  It  was  the  only  an- 
swer I  gave  him.  He  understood  me,  and  since 
that  day  his  foot  has  never  pressed  his  native 
soil." 

"  And  was  it  all  because  you  were  so  fond  of 
your  liberty  ?"  said  Johnny. 

"Perhaps — I  did  not — love  him,"  said  Miss 
Demolines,  thoughtfully.  She  was  now  again 
seated  in  her  chair,  and  John  Eames  had  gone 
back  to  his  corner  of  the  sofa.  "  If  I  had  really 
loved  him  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  other- 
wise. He  was  a  gallant  fellow,  and  had  two 
thousand  a  year  of  his  own,  in  India  stock  and 
other  securities." 

"Dear  me !     And  he  has  not  married  yet ?" 

"He  wrote  me  word  to  say  that  he  would 
never  marry  till  I  was  married — but  that  on  tlic 
day  that  he  should  hear  of  my  wedding  he  would 
go  to  the  first  single  woman  near  him  and  ]iro- 
pose.     It  was  a  droll  thing  to  say  ;  was  it  not  ?" 

"The  single  woman  ought  to  feel  herself 
flattered." 


202 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"lie  would  fiiul  iilonty  to  accept  him.  Be- 
sitles  bciiifj;  so  well  oil'  he  was  a  very  handsome 
tVllow,  and  is  connected  with  people  of  title. 
lie  had  every  thing  to  recommend  him." 

"And  yet  you  refused  him  so  often?" 

"Yes.  You  think  I  was  foolish;  do  you 
not?" 

"I  don't  think  you  were  at  all  foolish  if  you 
didn't  care  for  him." 

"  It  was  my  destiny,  I  suppose  ;  I  dare  say  I 
was  wrong.  Other  girls  marry  without  vio- 
lent love,  and  do  very  well  afterward.  Look 
at  IMaria  Clntterhuck." 

The  name  of  Maria  Clutteibnck  had  become 
odious  to  John  Eamcs.  As  long  as  ^liss  Denio- 
lincs  would  continue  to  talk  about  herself  he 
could  listen  with  some  amount  of  gratification. 
Conversation  on  that  subject  was  the  natural  prog- 
ress of  the  Bayswater  romance.  And  if  Mad- 
alina  would  only  call  her  friend  by  her  ])rescnt 
name  he  had  no  strong  objection  to  an  occasional 
mention  of  the  lady ;  but  the  combined  names 
of  JMaria  Clntterhuck  had  come  to  be  absolutely 
distasteful  to  him.  He  did  not  believe  in  the 
JMaria  Clutterbuck  friendship — either  in  its  past 
or  present  existence,  as  described  by  Madalina. 
Indeed,  he  did  not  put  strong  faitli  in  anything 
that  ]\Iadalina  said  to  him.  In  the  handsome 
gentleman  with  two  thousand  a  year  he  did  not 
believe  at  all.  But  the  handsome  gentleman 
had  only  been  mentioned  once  in  tlie  course  of 
his  accpiaintance  with  Miss  Demolincs,  whereas 
Maria  Clutterbuck  had  come  up  so  often ! 
"Upon  my  word  I  must  wish  you  good-by,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  going  on  for  eleven  o'clock,  and  I 
have  to  start  to-morrow  at  seven." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"A  fellow  wants  to  get  a  little  sleep,  you 
know." 

"  Go,  tlien — go  and  get  your  sleep.  What  a 
sleei)y-lieaded  generation  it  is !"  Johnny  longed 
to  ask  her  wliether  the  last  generation  was  less 
sleepy-lieaded,  and  whether  the  gentleman  with 
two  thousand  a  year  had  sat  up  talking  all  night 
l.'cfore  he  pressed  his  foot  for  the  last  time  on 
his  native  soil ;  but  he  did  not  dare.  As  he 
said  to  himself  afterward,  "It  would  not  do  to 
bring  tlie  Bayswater  romance  too  suddenly  to  its 
termination!"  "But  before  you  go,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I  must  say  the  word  to  you  about  tliat 
picture.     Did  you  speak  to  Mr.  Dalrymple?" 

"  I  did  not.  '  I  have  been  so  busy  with  differ- 
ent things  that  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  And  now  you  arc  going?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think  I  shall  see 
him  to-night,  in  spite  of  my  being  so  sleepy- 
headed.  I  wrote  him  a  line  that  I  would  look 
in  and  smoke  a  cigar  with  him  if  he  chanced  to 
be  at  home." 

"And  tliat  is  why  you  want  to  go.  A  gen- 
tleman can  not  live  without  his  cigar  now." 

"It  is  especially  at  your  bidding  that  I  am 
going  to  see  him." 

"Go,  then,  and  make  your  friend  under- 
stand that  if  he  continues  this  picture  of  his  he 
will  bring  himself  to   great  trouble,  and  will 


l)robably  ruin  the  woman  for  whom  he  professes, 
I  presume,  to  feel  something  like  friendship. 
You  may  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Van  iSiever  has  al- 
ready  heard  of  it." 

"Who  told  her?"  demanded  Johnny. 

"Never  mind.  You  need  not  look  at  me 
like  that.  It  was  not  I.  Do  you  sujipose  that 
secrets  can  be  kept  when  so  many  peo))le  know 
them  ?  Every  servant  in  Maria's  house  knows 
all  about  it.' 

"  As  for  that,  I  don't  suppose  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton  makes  any  great  secret  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  she  has  told  Mr.  Broughton? 
I  am  sure  she  has  not.  I  may  say  I  know  she 
has  not.  Maria  Clutterbuck  is  infatuated. 
Tiiere  is  no  other  excuse  to  be  made  for  her." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Johnny,  hurriedly. 

"  And  you  really  are  going  ?" 

"Well — yes.     I  suppose  so." 

"Go,  then.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
you." 

"  I  shall  come  and  call  directly  I  return," 
said  Johnny. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  ]ileasc  about  that.  Sir." 

"Do you  mean  that  you  won't  be  glad  to  see 
me  again  ?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  flatter  you,  Mr.  Eames. 
Mamma  will  be  well  by  tliat  time,  I  hope,  and 
I  do  not  mind  telling  you  that  you  arc  a  favor- 
ite with  her."  Johnny  thought  that  this  was 
particularly  kind,  as  he  had  seen  so  very  little  of 
the  old  lady.  "  If  you  choose  to  call  upon  her," 
said  Madalina,  "  of  course  she  will  be  glad  to 
see  you." 

"But  I  was  speaking  of  yourself,  you  know ;" 
and  Johnny  permitted  himself  for  a  moment  to 
look  tenderly  at  her. 

"Then  from  myself  pray  understand  that  I 
will  say  nothing  to  flatter  your  self-love." 

"  I  thought  yoit  would  be  kinder  just  when  I 
was  going  away." 

"I  think  I  have  been  quite  kind  enough.  As 
you  observed  yourself  just  now,  it  is  nearly  elev- 
en o'clock,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  go  away. 
Bon  voyage,  and  a  happy  return  to  you." 

"  And  you  will  be  glad  to  see  me  when  I  am 
back  ?     Tell  me  that  you  will  be  glad  to  see  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing  of  the  kind.  Mr. 
Eames,  if  you  do,  I  will  be  very  angry  with  you." 
And  then  he  went. 

On  his  way  back  to  his  own  lodgings  he  did 
call  on  Conway  Dalrymple,  and  in  s])ite  of  his 
need  for  early  rising  sat  smoking  with  the  art- 
ist for  an  hour.  "If  you  don't  take  care, 
young  man,"  said  his  friend,  "  you  will  find 
yourself  in  a  scrape  with  your  Madalina." 

"What  sort  of  a  scrape?" 
As  you  walk  away  from  Porchcster  Terrace 
ome  fine  day   you  will  have  to  congratulate 
yourself  on  having  made  a  successful  overture 
toward  matrimony." 

"You  don't  think  I  atn  such  a  fool  as  that 
comes  to?" 

"Other  men  as  wise  as  you  have  done  the 
same  sort  of  thing.  Miss  Demolines  is  very 
clever,  and  I  dare  say  you  find  it  amusing." 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


203 


"  It  isn't  so  much  tlfht  she's  clever,  and  I  can 
liardly  say  that  it  is  amusing.  One  gets  awful- 
ly tired  of  it,  you  know.  But  a  fellow  must 
have  something  to  do,  and  that  is  as  good  as 
any  thing  else." 

" I  suppose  you  have  not  heard  that  one 
young  man  levanted  last  year  to  save  himself./' 
from  a  breach  of  promise  case  ?" 

"I  wonder  whether  he  had  any  money  in  In- 
dian securities?" 

"  What  makes  you  ask  that  ?" 

"Nothing  particular." 

' '  Whatever  little  he  had  he  chose  to  save, 
and  I  think  I  heard  that  he  went  to  Canada. 
His  name  was  Shorter ;  and  they  say  that,  on 
the  eve  of  his  going,  Madalina  sent  him  word 
that  she  had  no  objection  to  the  colonies,  and 
that,  under  the  pressing  emergency  of  his  expa- 
triation, she  was  willing  to  become  Mrs.  Sliort- 
er  with  more  expedition  than  usually  attends 
fashionable  weddings.  Shorter,  however,  es- 
caped, and  has  never  been  seen  back  again." 

Eames  declared  that  he  did  not  believe  a  word 
of  it.  Nevertheless  as  he  walked  home  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Shorter  must 
have  been  the  handsome  gentleman  with  Indian 
securities  to  whom  "no"  had  been  said  once 
too  often. 

While  sitting  with  Conway  Dalrymple  he  had 
forgotten  to  say  a  word  about  Jacl  and  Sisera. 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 

DR.    TEMPEST  AT   THE   PALACE. 

Intimation  had  been  sent  from  the  palace  to 
Dr.  Tempest  of  Silverbridge  of  the  bishop's  in- 
tention that  a  commission  should  be  held  by 
him,  as  rural  dean,  with  other  neighboring  cler- 


gymen, as  assessors  with  him,  that  inquiry  might 
be  made  on  the  part  of  the  Church  into  the 
question  of  Mr.  Crawley's  guilt.  It  must  be 
understood  that  by  this  time  the  opinion  had  be- 
come very  general  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  been 
guilty — that  lie  Iiad  I'ound  the  check  in  his  house, 
and  that  he  had,  after  holding  it  for  many 
months,  succumbed  to  temptation,  and  ajjplied 
it  to  his  own  purposes.  But  various  excuses 
were  made  for  him  by  those  who  so  believed. 
In  the  first  place,  it  was  felt  by  all  who  really 
knew  any  thing  of  the  man's  character,  that  the 
very  foct  of  his  committing  such  a  crime  proved 
him  to  be  hardly  responsible  for  his  actions.  He 
must  have  known,  had  not  all  judgment  in  such 
matters  been  taken  from  him,  that  the  check 
would  certainly  be  traced  back  to  his  hands. 
No  attempt  had  been  made  in  the  disjiosing  of 
it  to  dispose  of  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  trace 
should  be  obliterated.  He  had  simply  given  it 
to  a  neighbor  with  a  direction  to  have  it  cashed, 
and  had  written  his  own  name  on  the  back  of  it. 
And  therefore,  though  there  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  the  theft  in  the  mind  of  those  who  sup- 
posed that  he  had  found  the  check  in  his  own 
house,  yet  the  guilt  of  the  tlieft  seemed  to  be 
almost  annihilated  by  the  folly  of  the  thief. 
And  then  his  poverty,  and  his  struggles,  and 
the  sufierings  of  his  wife  were  remembered  ;  and 
stories  were  told  from  mouth  to  mouth  of  his  in- 
dustry in  his  profession,  of  his  great  zeal  among 
those  brickmakers  of  Hoggle  End,  of  acts  of 
cliarity  done  by  him  which  startled  the  people 
of  the  district  into  admiration — bow  he  had 
worked  with  his  own  hands  for  the  .^ick  poor  to 
whom  he  could  not  give  relief  in  money,  turn- 
ing a  woman's  mangle  for  a  coujde  of  hours, 
and  carrying  a  boy's  load  along  tiic  lanes.  Dr. 
Tempest  and  others  declared  tliat  he  had  dero- 
gated from  the  dignity  of  his  position  as  an  En- 
glish parish  clergyman  by  such  acts ;  but  nev- 
ertheless tlie  stories  of  these  deeds  acted  strong- 
ly on  the  minds  of  both  men  and  women,  cre- 
ating an  admiration  for  Mr.  Crawley  which  was 
much  stronger  than  the  condemnation  of  his 
guilt. 

Even  Mrs.  Walker  and  her  daughter,  and  the 
Miss  Prettynians,  had  so  far  given  way  that 
they  had  ceased  to  asseverate  their  belief  in  Mv. 
Crawley's  innocence.  They  contented  them- 
selves now  witli  sim])ly  expressing  a  hope  that 
he  would  be  acquitted  by  a  jury,  and  that  when 
he  should  be  so  acquitted  the  thing  might  be  al- 
lowed to  rest.  If  he  had  sinned,  no  doubt  he 
had  repented.  And  then  there  were  serious 
debates  whether  he  might  not  have  stolen  the 
money  without  much  sin,  being  mad  or  half- 
mad — touched  with  madness  when  he  took  if ; 
and  whether  he  might  not,  in  spite  of  such  tem- 
porary touch  of  madness,  be  well-fitted  for  his 
parish  duties.  Sorrow  had  afflicted  him  griev- 
ously ;  but  that  sorrow,  though  it  had  incapaci- 
tated him  for  the  management  of  his  own  af- 
fairs, had  not  rendered  him  unfit  for  the  minis- 
trations of  his  parish.  Such  were  the  arguments 
now  used  in  his  favor  by  the  women  around 


204 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


him  ;  anil  the  men  wcm  not  keen  to  contradict 
them.  The  wisli  that  he  shoukl  be  acquitted 
and  allowed  to  remain  in  his  i)arsonage  was  very 
general. 

"When  therefore  it  became  known  that  tlic 
bishop  liad  decided  to  put  on  foot  another  in- 
vestigation, with  the  view  of  bringing  Mr. 
Crawley's  conduct  under  ecclesiastical  condem- 
nation, almost  every  body  accused  the  bisliop 
of  persecution.  The  world  of  the  diocese  de- 
clared tliat  Mrs.  Proudic  was  at  work,  and  tliat 
tlic  bisIiop  himself  was  no  better  than  a  puppet. 
It  was  in  vain  that  certain  clear-headed  men 
among  the  clergy,  of  whom  Dr.  Tempest  himself 
was  one,  pointed  out  tliat  the  bishop  after  all 
miglit  perhajisbe  right — that  if  Mr.  Crawley  were 
guilty,  and  if  he  should  be  found  to  have  been 
so  by  a  jury,  it  might  be  absolutely  necessary 
that  an  ecclesiastical  court  should  take  some 
cogni/.ance  of  the  crime  beyond  that  taken  by 
the  civil  law.  "The  jury,"  said  Dr.  Tempest, 
discussing  the  case  with  Mr.  Kobarts  and  other 
clerical  neighbors — "the  jury  may  probably 
find  him  guilty  and  recommend  him  to  mercy. 
Tiie  judge  will  have  heard  his  character,  and 
will  have  been  made  acquainted  with  his  man- 
ner of  life,  and  will  deal  as  lightly  with  the  case 
as  the  law  will  allow  him.  For  aught  I  know 
he  may  be  imprisoned  for  a  month.  I  wish  it 
miglit  be  for  no  more  than  a  day — or  an  hour. 
But  w^hen  lie  comes  out  from  his  month's  im- 
prisonment— how  then  ?  Surely  it  should  be  a 
case  for  ecclesiastical  inquiry  whether  a  clergy- 
man who  has  committed  a  theft  should  be  al- 
lowed to  go  into  his  puljtit  directly  he  comes 
out  of  prison  ?"  But  the  answer  to  this  was 
that  Mr.  Crawley  always  had  been  a  good  cler- 
gyman, was  a  good  clergyman  at  this  moment, 
and  would  be  a  good  clergyman  when  he  did 
come  out  of  prison. 

But  Dr.  Tempest,  though  he  had  argued  in  this 
way,  was  by  no  means  eager  for  the  commence- 
ment of  tiie  commission  over  which  he  was  to 
be  called  upon  to  preside.  In  spite  of  such  argu- 
ments as  the  above,  which  came  from  the  man's 
head  wlien  his  head  was  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  matter,  there  was  a  thorough  desire  within 
his  heart  to  oppose  the  bisliop.  He  had  no  strong 
sympathy  with  Mr.  Crawley,  as  had  others.  He 
would  have  had  Mr.  Crawley  silenced  without 
regret,  presuming  Mr.  Crawley  to  have  been 
guilty.  But  he  had  a  much  stronger  feeling 
with  regard  to  the  bishop.  Had  there  been  any 
question  of  silencing  the  bishop — could  it  have 
been  possible  to  take  any  steps  in  that  direction 
— he  would  have  been  very  active.  It  may  there- 
fore be  understood  that  in  spite  of  his  defense 
of  the  bishop's  present  proceedings  as  to  the 
commission,  he  was  anxious  that  the  bishop 
should  fail,  and  anxious  to  put  impediments  in 
the  bishop's  way  should  it  appear  to  liim  that 
he  could  do  so  with  justice.  Dr.  Tempest  was 
well  known  among  his  parishioners  to  be  hard 
and  unsympathetic,  some  said  unfeeling  also, 
and  cruel ;  but  it  was  admitted  by  those  who 
disliked  him  the  most  that  he  was  both  practical 


and  just,  and  that  he  cured  for  the  welfare  of 
many,  though  he  was  rarely  touched  by  the 
misery  of  one.  Such  was  the  man  who  was 
rector  of  Silverbridge  and  rural  dean  in  the  dis- 
trict, and  who  was  now  called  npon  by  the  bish- 
op to  assist  him  in  making  further  inquiry  as  to 
this  wretched  check  for  twenty  pounds. 

Once  at  this  jjcriod  Archdeacon  Grantly  and 
Dr.  Tempest  met  each  other  and  discussed  the 
question  of  Jlr.  Crawley's  guilt.  Both  these  men 
were  inimical  to  the  ])resent  bishop  of  the  dio- 
cese, and  both  had  perhaps  respected  the  old 
bishop  beyond  all  other  men.  But  they  were 
different  in  this,  that  the  archdeacon  hated  Dr. 
Proudic  as  a  i)artisan — whereas  Dr.  Tempest 
opposed  the  bishop  on  certain  principles  which 
he  endeavored  to  make  clear,  at  any  rate  to 
himself.  "Wrong !"  said  the  archdeacon,  s])cak- 
ing  of  the  bishop's  intention  of  issuing  a  com- 
mission— "of  course  he  is  wrong.  How  could 
any  thing  right  come  from  him  or  fiom  her? 
I  should  be  sorry  to  have  to  do  his  bidding." 

"I  think  you  are  a  little  hard  upon  Bishop 
Proudie,"  said  Dr.  Tempest. 

"One  can  not  be  hard  upon  him,"  said  the 
archdeacon.  "He  is  so  scandalously  weak, 
and  she  is  so  radically  vicious,  that  they  can 
not  but  be  wrong  together.  The  very  fact  that 
such  a  man  should  be  a  bishop  among  us  is  to 
me  terribly  strong  evidence  of  evil  days  coming." 

"You  are  more  impulsive  than  I  am,"  said 
Dr.  Tempest.  "  In  this  case  I  am  sorry  for  the 
poor  man,  who  is,  I  am  sure,  honest  in  the  main. 
But  I  believe  that  in  such  a  case  your  father 
would  have  done  just  what  the  present  bishop 
is  doing — that  he  could  have  done  nothing  else; 
and  as  I  think  that  Dr.  Proudie  is  right  I  shall 
do  all  that  I  can  to  assist  him  in  the  commis- 
sion." 

The  bishop's  secretary  had  written  to  Dr. 
Tempest,  telling  him  of  the  bislioj)'s  purpose ; 
and  now,  in  one  of  the  last  days  of  March,  the 
bishop  himself  wrote  to  Dr.  Tempest,  asking 
him  to  come  over  to  the  palace.  The  letter 
was  worded  most  courteously,  and  expressed 
very  feelingly  the  great  regret  which  the  writer 
felt  at  being  obliged  to  take  these  proceedings 
against  a  clergyman  in  his  diocese.  Bishop 
Proudie  knew  how  to  write  such  a  letter.  By 
the  writing  of  such  letters,  and  by  the  making 
of  speeches  in  the  same  strain,  he  had  become 
Bishop  of  Barchester.  Now  in  this  letter  he 
begged  Dr.  Tempest  to  come  over  to  him,  say- 
ing how  delighted  Mrs.  Proudie  would  be  to  see 
him  at  the  palace.  Then  he  went  on  to  ex- 
plain the  great  difficulty  which  he  felt,  and 
great  sorrow  also,  in  dealing  with  this  matter 
of  Mr.  Crawley.  He  looked,  therefore,  confi- 
dently for  Dr.  Tempest's  assistance.  Thinking 
to  do  the  best  for  Mr.  Crawley,  and  anxious  to 
enable  Mr.  Crawley  to  remain  in  quiet  retire- 
ment till  the  trial  should  be  over,  he  bad  sent 
a  clergyman  over  to  Ilogglestock,  who  would 
have  relieved  Mr.  Crawley  from  the  burden  of 
the  church  services ;  but  Sir.  Crawley  would 
have  none  of  this  relief.      Mr.  Crawley  had 


d 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


205 


boon  obstinate  and  overbearing,  and  had  per- 
sisted in  claiming  his  right  to  his  own  pulpit. 
Therefore  was  the  bishop  obliged  to  interfere 
legally,  and  therefore  was  he  under  the  necessity 
of  asking  Dr.  Tempest  to  assist  him.  Would 
Dr.  Tempest  come  over  on  the  Monday,  and 
stay  till  the  Wednesday  ? 

The  letter  was  a  very  good  letter,  and  Dr. 
Tempest  was  obliged  to  do  as  he  was  asked. 
He  so  far  modified  the  bishop's  proposition  tliat 
he  reduced  the  sojourn  at  the  palace  by  one 
night.  He  wrote  to  say  that  he  would  have 
the  pleasure  of  dining  with  the  bishop  and  Mrs. 
Proudic  on  the  Monday,  but  would  return  home 
on  the  Tuesday,  as  soon  as  the  business  in  hand 
would  permit  him.  "I  shall  get  on  very  well 
with  him,"  he  said  to  his  wife  before  he  started ; 
"  but  I  am  afraid  of  the  woman.  If  she  inter- 
feres there  will  be  a  row."  "Then,  my  dear," 
said  his  wife,  "  there  will  be  a  row,  for  I  am 
told  that  she  always  interferes."  On  reaching 
the  palace  about  half  an  hour  before  dinner- 
time Dr.  Tempest  found  that  other  guests  were 
expected,  and  on  descending  to  the  great  yellow 
drawing-room,  which  was  used  only  on  state  oc- 
casions, he  encountered  Mrs.  Proudie  and  two 
of  her  daughters  arrayed  in  a  full  panoply  of 
female  armor.  She  received  him  with  her 
sweetest  smiles,  and  if  there  had  been  any 
former  enmity  between  Silverbridge  and  the 
palace  it  was  now  all  forgotten.  She  regret- 
ted greatly  that  Mrs.  Tempest  had  not  accom- 
panied the  doctoi- — for  Mrs.  Tempest  also  had 
been  invited.  But  Mrs.  Tempest  was  not  quite  as 
well  as  she  might  have  been,  the  doctor  had 
said,  and  very  rarely  slept  away  from  home. 
And  then  the  bishop  came  in  and  greeted  his 
guest  with  his  pleasantest  good-humor.  It  was 
quite  a  sorrow  to  him  that  Silverbridge  was  so 
distant,  and  that  he  saw  so  little  of  Dr.  Tem- 
pest ;  but  he  hoped  that  that  might  be  somewhat 
mended  now,  and  that  leisure  might  be  found 
for  social  delights — to  all  which  Dr.  Tempest 
said  but  little,  bowing  to  the  bishop  at  each  sep- 
arate expression  of  his  lordship's  kindness. 

There  were  guests  there  that  evening  who  did 
Tiot  often  sit  at  the  bishop's  table.  The  arch- 
deacon and  Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  summoned) 
from  Plumstead,  and  had  obeyed  the  summons. 
Great  as  was  the  enmity  between  the  bishop  and 
the  archdeacon,  it  had  never  quite  taken  the 
form  of  open  palpable  hostility.  Each,  there- 
fore, asked  the  other  to  dinner  perhaps  once 
every  year ;  and  each  went  to  the  other  per- 
haps once  in  two  years.  And  Dr.  Thorne  from 
Chaldicotes  was  there,  but  without  his  wife,  who 
in  these  days  was  up  in  London.  Mrs.  Proudie 
always  expressed  a  warm  friendship  for  Mrs. 
Thorne,  and  on  this  occasion  loudly  regretted 
her  absence.  "You  must  tell  her.  Dr.  Thorne, 
how  exceedingly  much  we  miss  her."  Dr. 
Thorne,  who  was  accustomed  to  hear  his  wife 
speak  of  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Proudie  with  al- 
most unmeasured  ridicule,  promised  that  he 
would  do  so.  "We  are  so  sorry  the  Luftons 
couldn't  come  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie — not 


alluding  to  the  dowager,  of  whom  it  was  well 
known  that  no  earthly  inducement  would  have 
sufhced  to  make  her  put  her  foot  within  Mrs. 
Proudie's  room ;  "  but  one  of  the  children  is 
ill,  and  she  could  not  leave  him."  But  the 
Grcshams  were  there  from  Boxall  Hill,  and  the 
Thornes  from  Ullathorne,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  single  chaplain,  who  pretended  to 
carve.  Dr.  Tempest  and  the  archdeacon  were 
the  only  clerical  guests  at  the  table.  Prom  all 
which  Dr.  Tempest  knew  that  the  bishop  was 
anxious  to  treat  him  with  special  consideration 
on  the  present  occasion. 

The  dinner  was  rather  long  and  ponderous, 
and  occasionally  almost  dull.  The  archdeacon 
talked  a  good  deal,  but  a  by-stander  with  an 
acute  ear  might  have  understood  from  the  tone 
of  his  voice  that  he  was  not  talking  as  he  would 
have  talked  among  friends.  Mrs.  Proudie  felt 
this,  and  understood  it,  and  was  angry.  She 
could  never  find  herself  in  the  presence  of  the 
archdeacon  without  becoming  angry.  Her  ac- 
curate ear  would  always  appreciate  the  defiance 
of  ejtiscopal  authority,  as  now  existing  in  Bar- 
chester,  which  was  concealed,  or  only  half  con- 
cealed, by  all  the  archdeacon's  words.  But  the 
bishop  was  not  so  keen,  nor  so  easily  roused  to 
wrath  ;  and  though  the  presence  of  his  enemy 
did  to  a  certain  degree  cow  him,  he  strove  to 
fight  against  the  feeling  with  renewed  good-hu- 
mor. 

"You  have  improved  so  upon  the  old  days," 
said  the  archdeacon,  speaking  of  some  small 
matter  with  reference  to  the  cathedral,  "that 
one  hardly  knows  the  old  place." 

"I  hope  we  have  not  fallen  off,"  said  the 
bishop,  with  a  smile. 

"  We  have  improved,  Dr.  Grantly,"  said  Mrs, 
Proudie,  with  great  emphasis  on  her  words. 
"What  you  say  is  true.     We  have  improved." 

"  Not  a  doubt  about  that,"  said  the  archdea- 
con. Then  Mrs.  Grantly  interposed,  strove  to 
change  the  subject,  and  threw  oil  upon  the  wa- 
tei's. 

"  Talking  of  improvements,"  said  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly, "what  an  excellent  row  of  houses  they  have 
built  at  the  bottom  of  High  Street !  I  wonder 
who  is  to  live  in  them  ?" 

"I  remember  when  that  was  the  very  worst 
part  of  the  town,"  said  Dr.  Thorne. 

"And  now  they're  asking  seventy  pounds 
apiece  for  houses  which  did  not  cost  above  six 
hundred  each  to  build,"  said  Mr.  Thorne  of  Ul- 
lathorne, with  that  seeming  dislike  of  modern 
success  which  is  evinced  by  most  of  the  elders 
of  the  world. 

"And  who  is  to  live  in  them?"  asked  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"Two  of  them  have  been  already  taken  by 
clergymen,"  said  the  bishop,  in  a  tone  of  tri- 
umph. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  archdeacon,  "and  the  houses 
in  the  Close  which  used  to  be  the  residences  of 
the  prebendaries  have  been  leased  out  to  tallow- 
chandlers  and  retired  brewers.  That  comes  of 
the  working  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Commission." 


206 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  And  why  not?"  tlcniandcd  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  AVliy  not,  indeed,  if  you  like  to  have  tallow- 
chandlers  next  door  to  you?''  said  the  archdea- 
con. "In  the  old  days  wc  would  sooner  have 
had  our  brethren  near  to  us." 

"  There  is  nothing,  Dr.  Grantly,  so  objection- 
able in  a  cathedral  town  as  a  lot  of  idle  clergy- 
men," said  Mrs.  rroudic. 

"It  is  beginning  to  be  a  question  to  mo," 
said  the  archdeacon,  "  whether  there  is  any  use 
in  clergymen  at  all  for  the  ])resent  generation." 

"Dr.  Grantly,  those  can  not  be  your  real 
sentiments,"  said  Mrs.  I'roudie.  Then  Mrs. 
Grantly,  working  hard  in  her  vocation  as  a 
peace-maker,  changed  the  conversation  again, 
and  began  to  talk  of  the  American  war.  But 
even  that  was  made  matter  of  discord  on 
church  matters — the  archdeacon  professing  an 
opinion  that  tlic  Southerners  were  Christian 
gentlemen,  and  the  Nortlierners  infidel  snobs; 
whereas  Mrs.  Troudio  had  an  idea  that  the 
Gospel  was  preached  with  gennine  zeal  in  the 
Northern  States.  And  at  each  such  outbreak 
the  poor  bishop  would  laugh  uneasily,  and  say 
a  word  or  two  to  which  no  one  paid  much  at- 
tention. And  so  the  dinner  went  on,  not  al- 
ways in  the  most  pleasant  manner  for  those  who 
preferred  continued  social  good-humor  to  the 
occasional  excitement  of  a  half  -  suppressed 
battle. 

Not  a  word  was  said  about  ]\Ir.  Crawley. 
When  Mrs.  Proudie  and  the  ladies  had  left  the 
dining-room  the  bishop  strove  to  get  up  a  little 
lay  conversation.  He  spoke  to  Mr.  Throne 
about  his  game,  and  to  Dr.  Thornc  about  his 
timber,  and  even  to  Mr.  Gresham  about  his 
hounds.  "It  is  not  so  many  years,  Mr.  Gres- 
ham," said  he,  "  since  the  Bishop  of  Barchcster 
was  expected  to  keep  hounds  himself;"  and  the 
bishop  laughed  at  his  own  joke. 

"Your  lordship  shall  have  them  back  at  the 
palace  next  season,"  said  young  Frank  Gresham, 
"  if  you  will  promise  to  do  the  county  justice." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  bishop.  "What 
do  you  say,  Mr.  Tozer?"  Mr.  Tozer  was  the 
chaplain  on  duty. 

"I  have  not  the  least  objection  in  the  world, 
my  lord,"  said  ]\Ir.  Tozer,  "  to  act  as  second 
whip." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  them  an  expensive 
adjunct  to  the  episcopate,"  said  the  archdeacon. 
And  then  the  joke  was  over ;  for  there  had  been 
a  rumor,  now  for  some  years  prevalent  in  Bar- 
chcster, that  Bishop  Proudie  was  not  liberal  in 
his  expenditure.  As  Mr.  Thorne  said  afterward 
to  his  cousin  the  doctor,  the  archdeacon  might 
have  spared  that  sneer.  "The  archdeacon  will 
never  spare  the  man  who  sits  in  his  father's  seat," 
said  the  doctor.  "  The  pity  of  it  is  that  men 
who  are  so  thoroughly  different  in  all  their  sym- 
pathies should  ever  be  bronght  into  contact." 
"Dear,  dear,"  said  the  archdeacon,  as  he  stood 
afterward  on  the  rug  before  the  drawing-room 
fire,  "how  many  rubbers  of  whist  I  have  seen 
played  in  this  room!"  "I  sincerely  hope  that 
you  will  never  sec  another  played  liere,"  said 


Mrs.  Proudie.  "I"m  quite  sure  that  I  shall 
not,"  said  the  archdeacon.  For  this  last  sally 
his  wife  scolded  him  bitterly  on  their  way  home. 
"You  know  very  well,"  she  said,  "that  the 
times  are  changed,  and  that  if  you  were  Bishop 
of  Barchcster  yourself  you  would  not  have  whist 
played  in  the  palace."  "I  only  know, "  said  he, 
"  that  when  we  had  the  whist  we  had  some  true 
religion  along  with  it,  and  some  good  sense  and 
good  feeling  also."  "You  can  not  be  right  to 
sneer  at  others  for  doing  what  you  would  do  your- 
self," said  his  wife.  Then  the  archdeacon  threw 
himself  sulkily  into  the  corner  of  his  carriage, 
and  nothing  more  was  said  between  him  and  his 
wife  about  the  bishojj's  dinner-party. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  tliat  night  at  the  pal- 
ace about  Mr.  Crawley  ;  and  when  that  obnox- 
ious guest  from  Plumstead  was  gone  !Mrs. 
4^'roudic  resumed  her  good-humor  toward  Dr. 
Tempest.  So  intent  was  she  on  conciliating 
him  that  she  refrained  even  from  abusing  the 
archdeacon,  whom  she  knew  to  have  been  inti- 
mate for  very  many  years  with  the  rector  of 
Silvcrbridge.  In  her  accustomed  moods  she 
would  have  broken  forth  in  loud  anger,  caring 
nothing  for  old  friendships ;  but  at  present  she 
was  thoughtful  of  the  morrow,  and  desirous  that 
Dr.  Temjicst  should,  if  possible,  meet  her  in  a 
friendly  humor  when  the  great  discussion  as 
to  Ilogglestock  should  be  opened  between  them. 
But  Dr.  Tempest  understood  her  bearing,  and 
as  he  pulled  on  his  night-cap  made  certain  res- 
olutions of  his  own  as  to  the  morrow's  proceed- 
ings. "I  don't  suppose  she  will  dare  to  inter- 
fere," he  had  said  to  his  wife  ;  "but  if  she  does 
I  shall  certainly  tell  the  bishop  that  I  can  not 
speak  on  the  subject  in  her  presence." 

At  breakfast  on  the  following  morning  there 
was  no  one  present  but  the  bishop,  Mrs.  Proudie, 
and  Dr.  Tempest.  Very  little  was  said  at  the 
meal.  Mr.  Crawley's  name  was  not  mentioned, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  a  general  feeling  among 
them  that  there  was  a  task  hanging  over  them 
which  prevented  any  general  conversation.  The 
eggs  were  eaten  and  the  coffee  was  drunk,  but  the 
eggs  and  the  coffee  disappeared  almost  in  silence. 
When  these  ceremonies  had  been  altogether  com- 
pleted, and  it  was  clearly  necessary  that  some- 
thing further  should  be  done,  the  bishop  spoke  : 
"Dr.  Tempest,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  will 
join  me  in  my  study  at  eleven.  We  can  then 
say  a  few  words  to  each  other  about  the  unfor- 
tunate matter  on  which  I  shall  have  to  trouble 
you."  Dr.  Tempest  said  he  would  be  punctual 
to  his  appointment,  and  then  the  bisliop  with- 
drew, muttering  something  as  to  tlie  necessity 
of  looking  at  his  letters.  Dr.  Tempest  took  a 
newspaper  in  his  hand,  which  had  been  brought 
in  by  a  servant,  but  Mrs.  Proudie  did  not  allow 
him  to  read  it.  "Dr.  Tempest,"  she  said, 
"this  is  a  matter  of  most  vital  importance.  I 
am  quite  sure  that  yon  feel  that  it  is  so." 

"  What  matter,  madam  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Tliis  terrible  affair  of  Mr.  Crawley's.  If 
something  be  not  done  the  whole  diocese  will  be 
disgraced."     Then  she  waited  for  an  answer, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


207 


but  receiving  none  she  was  obliged  to  contimic. 
"  Of  the  poor  man's  guilt  there  can,  I  fear,  be 
no  doubt."  Then  there  was  another  pause,  but 
still  the  doctor  made  no  answer.  "And  if  he 
be  guilty,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  resolving  that  she 
Avould  ask  a  question  that  must  bring  forth  some 
reply,  "can  any  experienced  clergyman  think 
that  he  can  be  fit  to  preach  from  the  pulpit  of  a 
parish  church  ?  I  am  sure  that  you  must  agree 
with  me.  Dr.  Tempest  ?  Consider  the  souls  of 
the  people !" 

"  Mrs.  Proudie,"  said  he,  "I  think  that  we 
had  better  not  discuss  the  matter." 

"Not  discuss  it?" 

"I  think  that  we  had  better  not  do  so.  If  I 
imderstand  the  bishop  aright,  he  wishes  that  I 
should  take  some  step  in  the  matter." 

"  Of  course  he  does." 

"And  therefore  I  must  decline  to  make  it  a 
matter  of  common  conversation." 

"Common  conversation,  Dr.  Tempest!  I 
should  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  make 
it  a  matter  of  common  conversation.  I  regard 
this  as  by  no  means  a  common  conversation. 
God  forbid  that  it  should  be  a  common  conver- 
sation. I  am  sjieaking  now  very  seriously  with 
reference  to  the  interests  of  the  Church,  which 
I  think  will  be  endangered  by  having  among 
her  active  servants  a  man  who  has  been  guilty  of 
so  base  a  crime  as  theft.  Think  of  it,  Dr.  Tem- 
pest. Theft !  Stealing  money !  Appropria- 
ting to  his  own  use  a  check  for  twenty  pounds 
which  did  not  belong  to  him  !  And  then  tell- 
ing such  terrible  falsehoods  about  it !  Can  any 
thing  be  worse,  any  thing  more  scandalous,  any 
thing  more  dangerous  ?  Indeed,  Dr.  Tempest, 
I  do  not  regard  this  as  any  common  conversa- 
tion." The  whole  of  this  speech  was  not  made 
at  once,  fluently,  or  without  a  break.  From 
stop  to  stop  Mrs.  Proudie  paused,  waiting  for 
her  companion's  words ;  but  as  he  would  not 
speak  she  was  obliged  to  continue.  "  I  am  sure 
that  you  can  not  but  agree  with  me.  Dr.  Tem- 
pest?" she  said. 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  I  shall  not  discuss  it/ 
with  you,"  said  the  doctor,  very  brusquely. 

"And  why  not?  Are  you  not  here  to  dis- 
cuss it?" 

"Not  with  you,  Mrs.  Proudie.  You  must 
excuse  me  for  saj-ing  so,  but  I  am  not  here  to 
discuss  any  such  matter  with  you.  "Were  I  to 
do  so  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  very  great  impro- 
priety."     • 

"All  these  things  are  in  common  between  mc 
and  the  bishop,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  with  an  air 
that  was  intended  to  be  dignified,  but  which 
nevertheless  displayed  her  rising  anger. 

"As  to  that  I  know  nothing,  but*thcy  can 
not  be  in  common  between  you  and  me.  It 
grieves  me  much  that  I  should  have  to  speak  to 
you  in  such  a  strain,  but  my  duty  allows  me  no 
alternative.  I  think,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I 
will  take  a  turn  round  the  garden  before  I  keep 
my  appointment  with  his  lordship."  And  so 
saying  he  escaped  from  the  lady  without  hear- 
ing her  further  remonstrance. 


It  still  wanted  nearly  an  hour  to  the  time 
named  by  the  bishoj),  and  Dr.  Tempest  used  it 
in  preparing  for  his  withdrawcl  from  the  palace 
as  soon  as  his  interview  with  the  bishop  should 
be  over.  After  what  had  passed  he  thought  that 
he  would  be  justified  in  taking  his  departure 
without  bidding  adieu  formally  to  Mrs.  Proudie. 
He  would  say  a  word  or  two,  explaining  his 
haste,  to  the  bishop  ;  and  then,  if  he  could  get 
out  of  the  house  at  once,  it  might  be  that  he 
would  never  see  Mrs.  Proudie  again.  He  was 
rather  proud  of  his  success  in  their  late  battle, 
but  he  felt  that,  having  been  so  completely  vic- 
torious, it  would  be  foolish  in  him  to  risk  his 
laurels  in  the  chance  of  another  encounter.  He 
would  say  not  a  word  of  what  had  happened  to 
the  bishop,  and  he  thought  it  probable  that  nei- 
ther would  Mrs.  Proudie  s])cak  of  it — at  any 
rate  till  after  he  M-as  gone.  Generals  who  are 
beaten  out  of  the  field  are  not  quick  to  talk  of 
their  own  repulses.  He,  indeed,  had  not  beaten 
Mrs.  Proudie  out  of  the  field.  He  had,  in  fact, 
himself  run  away.  But  he  had  left  his  foe  si- 
lenced ;  and  with  such  a  foe,  and  in  such  a  con- 
test, that  was  every  thing.  He  put  up  his  port- 
manteau, therefore,  and  prepared  for  his  final 
retreat.  Then  he  rang  his  bell  and  desired  the 
servant  to  show  him  to  the  bishop's  study.  The 
servant  did  so,  and  when  he  entered  the  room 
the  first  thing  he  saw  was  Mrs.  Proudie  sitting 
in  an  arm-chair  near  the  window.  The  bishop 
was  also  in  the  room,  sitting  with  his  arms  upon 
the  writing-table,  and  his  head  upon  his  hands. 
It  was  very  evident  that  Mrs.  Proudie  did  not 
consider  herself  to  have  been  beaten,  and  that 
she  was  prepared  to  fight  another  battle.  "  Will 
you  sit  down.  Dr.  Tempest?"  she  said,  motion- 
ing him  with  her  hand  to  a  chair  opposite  to 
that  occupied  by  the  bishop.  Dr.  Tempest  sat ' 
down.  He  felt  that  at  the  moment  he  had  no- 
thing else  to  do,  and  that  he  must  restrain  any 
remonsti'ance  that  he  might  make  till  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's name  should  be  mentioned.  He  was  al- 
most lost  in  admiration  of  the  woman.  He  had 
left  her,  as  he  thought,  utterly  vanquished  and 
prosti"ated  by  his  determined  but  uncourteous 
usage  of  her ;  and  here  she  was,  present  again 
upon  the  field  of  battle  as  though  she  had  never 
been  even  wounded.  He  could  see  that  there 
had  been  words  between  her  and  the  bishop,  and 
that  she  had  carried  a  point  on  which  the  bishop 
had  been  very  anxious  to  have  his  own  way. 
He  could  perceive  at  once  that  the  bishop  had 
begged  her  to  absent  herself,  and  was  greatly 
chagrined  that  he  should  not  have  prevailed 
with  her.  There  she  was — and  as  Dr.  Tem- 
pest was  resolved  that  he  would  neither  give  ad- 
vice nor  receive  instructions  respecting  Mr.  Craw- 
ley in  her  presence,  he  could  only  draw  upon 
his  courage  and  his  strategy  for  the  coming  war- 
fare. For  a  few  moments  no  one  said  a  word. 
The  bishop  felt  that  if  Dr.  Tempest  would  only 
begin,  the  work  on  hand  might  be  got  through 
even  in  his  wife's  presence.  INIrs.  Proudie  was 
aware  that  her  husband  should  begin.  If  he 
would  do  so,  and  if  Dr.  Tempest  would  listen 


208 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


iiiid  tlicn  rei>ly,  she  might  gradually  make  her 
way  into  the  conversation  ;  and  if  lier  words 
were  once  accepted  then  slie  could  say  all  that 
she  desired  to  say  ;  then  she  could  play  herjiart 
and  become  somebody  in  the  episcopal  work. 
AVlien  once  she  should  have  been  allowed  liber- 
ly  of  speech  the  enemy  would  be  i)Owerless  to 
stoji  her.  But  all  this  Dr.  Tempest  understood 
quite  as  well  as  she  understood  it,  and  had  tlicy 
waited  till  nii^ht  lie  would  not  liave  been  the 
fust  to  mention  Mr.  Crawley's  name. 

The  bishoj)  siglied  aloud.  The  sip;li  might 
be  taken  as  expressing  grief  over  the  sin  of  the 
erring  brother  whose  conduct  tliey  were  then  to 
discuss,  and  was  not  amiss.  But  wlicn  tlie  sigh 
witli  its  attendant  murmurs  had  passed  away 
it  was  necessary  tliat  some  initiative  stc]i  sliould 
be  taken.  "  Dr.  Tempest,"  said  the  bishop, 
"  what  arc  we  to  do  about  tliis  poor  stiff-necked 
gentleman  ?"  Still  Dr.  Tempest  did  not  speak. 
"There  is  no  clergyman  in  the  diocese,"  con- 
tinued the  bishop,  "in  whose  prudence  and  wis- 
dom I  have  more  confidence  than  in  yours.  And 
I  know,  too,  that  you  are  by  no  means  disposed 
to  severity  where  severe  measures  are  not  neces- 
sary. Wliat  ouglit  we  to  do  ?  If  he  has  been 
guilty  lie  should  not  surely  return  to  his  pulpit 
after  the  expiration  of  such  punishment  as  the 
law  of  his  country  may  award  to  Iiim." 

Dr.  Tempest  looked  at  i\Irs.  Proudie,  thinking 
that  she  might  perhaps  say  a  word  now;  but 
Mrs.  Proudie  knew  her  part  better,  and  was  si- 
lent. Angry  as  slie  was,  she  contrived  to  hold 
her  peace.  Let  the  debate  once  begin  and  slie 
would  bo  able  to  creep  into  it,  and  then  to  lead 
it — and  so  she  would  hold  her  own.  But  she 
had  met  a  foe  as  wary  as  herself.  "My  lord," 
said  the  doctor,  "  it  will  perhaps  be  well  that 
you  should  communicate  your  wishes  to  me  in 
writing.  If  it  be  possible  for  me  to  comply  with 
them  I  will  do  so." 

"Yes — exactly;  no  doubt;  but  I  thought 
that  pei-liaps  we  miglit  better  understand  each 
other  if  we  had  a  few  words  of  quiet  conversa- 
tion upon  the  subject.  I  believe  you  know  the 
steps  that  I  have — " 

But  here  the  bishop  was  interrupted.  Dr. 
Tempest  rose  from  his  chair,  and  advancing  to 
the  table  put  botli  his  hands  upon  it.  "My 
lord,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  myself  compelled  to  say 
that  which  I  would  very  much  rather  leave  un- 
said, were  it  possible.  I  feel  the  difficulty,  and 
I  may  say  delicacy,  of  my  position  ;  but  I  should 
be  untrue  to  my  conscience  and  to  my  feeling  of 
what  is  right  in  such  matters  if  I  were  to  take 
any  part  in  a  discussion  on  this  matter  in  the 
presence  of — a  lady." 

"  Dr.  Tempest,  what  is  your  objection?"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie,  rising  from  her  chair,  and  com- 
ing also  to  the  table,  so  that  from  thence  she 
miglit  confront  her  opponent ;  and  as  slie  stood 
opposite  to  Dr.  Tempest  she  also  put  both  her 
hands  upon  tlie  table. 

"  My  dear,  perhaps  you  will  leave  us  for  a 
few  moments,"  said  the  bishop.  Poor  bishop! 
Poor  weak  bishop  !     As  the  words  came  from 


his  mouth  he  knew  that  they  would  be  spoken  in 
vain,  and  that,  if  so,  it  would  have  been  better 
for  him  to  have  left  them  unspoken. 

"  Why  should  I  be  dismissed  from  your  room 
without  a  reason ?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "Can- 
not Dr.  Tempest  understand  that  a  wife  may 
share  her  husband's  counsels — as  she  must  siiare 
his  troubles  ?  If  he  can  not.  I  pity  him  very 
much  as  to  his  own  household." 

"  Dr.  Tempest,"  said  the  bishop,  "  Mrs.  Prou- 
die takes  the  greatest  possible  interest  in  every 
tiling  concerning  tlio  diocese." 

"  I  am  sure,  my  lord,"  said  the  doctor,  "that 
you  will  sec  liow  unseemly  it  would  be  that  I 
should  interfere  in  any  way  between  you  and 
Mrs.  Proudie.  I  certainly  will  not  do  so.  I 
can  only  say  again  that  if  you  will  communicate 
to  me  your  wislies  in  writing  I  will  attend  to 
them — if  it  be  possible," 

"  You  mean  to  be  stubborn,"  said  Mrs.  Prou- 
die, whose  ju'udence  was  beginning  to  give  way 
under  the  great  provocation  to  Avhich  her  tem- 
per was  being  subjected. 

"  Yes,  madam  ;  if  it  is  to  be  called  stubborn- 
ness, I  must  be  stubborn.  My  lord,  Mrs.  Prou- 
die spoke  to  me  on  this  subject  in  the  breakfast- 
room  after  you  had  left  it,  and  I  tlien  ventured 
to  explain  to  her  that  in  accordance  with  such 
light  as  I  have  on  the  matter  I  could  not  dis- 
cuss it  in  her  presence.  I  greatly  grieve  that  I 
failed  to  make  myself  understood  by  her,  as 
otherwise  this  unpleasantness  might  have  been 
spared." 

"I  understood  you  very  well,  Dr.  Tempest, 
and  I  think  you  to  be  a  most  unreasonable  man. 
Indeed,  I  might  use  a  much  harsher  word." 

"You  may  use  any  word  you  jdease,  Mrs. 
Proudie,"  said  the  doctor. 
,'    ' '  My  dear,  I  really  think  you  had  better  leave 
us  for  a  few  minutes,"  said  tlie  bishop. 

"No,  my  lord — no,"  said  Mrs. Proudie,  turn- 
ing round  upon  hev  husband.  "Not  so.  It 
would  be  most  unbecoming  that  I  should  be 
turned  out  of  a  room  in  this  palace  by  an  un- 
courteous  word  from  a  jiarish  clergyman.  It 
would  be  unseemly.  If  Dr.  Tempest  forgets  his 
duty,  I  will  not  forget  mine.  There  are  other 
clergyman  in  the  diocese  besides  Dr.  Tempest 
who  can  undertake  the  very  easy  task  of  this 
commission.  As  for  his  having  been  a]q)ointed 
rural  dean  I  don't  know  how  many  years  ago,  it 
is  a  matter  of  no  consequence  whatever.  In 
such  a  preliminary  inquiry  any  three  clergymen 
will  suffice.  It  need  not  be  done  by  the  rural 
dean  at  all." 

"My  dear!" 

"I  will  not  be  turned  out  of  this  room  by  Dr. 
Tempest— and  that  is  enough." 

"My  lord," said  the  doctor,  "you  had  better 
write  to  me  as  I  proposed  to  you  just  now." 

"His  lordship  will  not  write.  His  lordship 
will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"My  dear!"  said  the  bishop,  driven  in  his 
perplexity  beyond  all  carefulness  of  reticence. 
"My  dear,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't — I  do  indeed. 
If  you  would  only  go  away!" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


209 


"I  will  not  go  away,  my  lord,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

*'  But  I  will,"  said  Dr.  Tempest,  feeling  true 
compassion  for  the  unfortunate  man  whom  he 
saw  writhing  in  agony  before  him.  "  It  will 
manifestly  be  for  the  best  that  I  should  retire. 
My  lord,  I  wish  you  good-morning.  Mrs.  Prou-^ 
die,  good-morning."     And  so  he  left  the  room,' 

"A  most  stubborn  and  a  most  ungentleman- 
like  man,"  said  Jlrs.  Proudie,  as  soon  as  the 
door  was  closed  behind  the  retreating  rural 
dean.  "  I  do  not  think  that  in  the  whole  course 
of  my  life  I  ever  met  with  any  one  so  insubor- 
dinate and  so  ill-mannered.  He  is  worse  than 
the  archdeacon."  As  she  uttered  these  words 
she  paced  about  the  room.  The  bishop  said  no- 
thing ;  and  when  she  herself  had  been  silent  for 
I  a  few  minutes  she  turned  upon  him.  "Bish- 
op," she  said,  "I  hope  that  you  agree  with  me. 
I  expect  that  you  will  agree  with  me  in  a  matter 
that  is  of  so  much  moment  to  my  comfort,  and 
'  I  may  say  to  my  position  generally  in  the  dio- 
cese.     Bishop,  why  do  you  not  speak?". 

"  You  have  behaved  in  such  a  way  that  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  shall  ever  speak  again,"  said  . 
the  bishop.  j 

"What  is  this  that  you  say?" 

"I  say  that  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  ever 
speak  again.     You  have  disgraced  me." 

"  Disgraced  you  !  I  disgrace  you  !  It  is  you 
that  disgrace  yourself  by  saying  such  words." 

"Very  well.  Let  it  be  so.  Perhaps  you 
will  go  away  now  and  leave  me  to  myself.  I 
have  got  a  bad  headache,  and  I  can't  talk  any 
more.  Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  what  will  he  think 
of  it!" 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  have  been 
wrong!" 

' '  Yes,  you  have  been  wrong — very  wrong. 
Why  didn't  you  go  away  when  I  asked  you? 
You  are  always  being  wrong.  I  wish  I  had 
never  come  to  Barchester.  in  any  other  posi- 
tion I  should  not  have  felt  it  so  much.  As  it 
is  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  ever  show  my  face 
again." 

"Kot  have  felt  what  so  much,  Mr.  Proudie?" 
said  the  wife,  going  back  in  the  excitement  of 
her  anger  to  the  nomenclature  of  old  days. 
"  And  this  is  to  be  my  return  for  all  my  care  in 
your  behalf!  Allow  me  to  tell  you,  Sir,  that 
in  any  position  in  which  you  may  be  placed  I 
know  what  is  due  to  you,  and  that  your  dignity 
will  never  lose  any  thing  in  my  hands.  I  wish 
that  you  were  as  well  able  to  take  care  of  it 
yourself."  Then  she  stalked  out  of  the  room, 
and  left  the  poor  man  alone. 

Bishop  Proudie  sat  alone  in  his  study  through- 
out the  whole  day.  Once  or  twice  in  the  course 
of  the  morning  his  chaplain  came  to  him  on 
some  matter  of  business,  and  Mas  answered 
with  a  smile — the  peculiar  softness  of  which  the 
chaplain  did  not  fail  to  attribute  to  the  right 
cause.  For  it  was  soon  known  throughout  the 
household  that  there  had  been  a  quarrel.  Could 
he  quite  have  made  up  his  mind  to  do  so — could 
he  have  resolved  that  it  would  be  altogether  bet- 


ter to  quarrel  with  his  wife — the  bishop  would 
have  appealed  to  the  chajilain,  and  have  asked 
at  any  rate  for  sympathy.  But  even  yet  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  confess  his  misery, 
and  to  own  himself  to  another  to  be  the  wretch 
that  he  was.  Then  during  the  long  hours  of 
the  day  he  sat  thinking  of  it  all.  How  happy 
could  he  be  if  it  were  only  possible  for  him  to 
go  away,  and  become  even  a  curate  in  a  parish, 
without  his  wife !  Would  there  ever  come  to 
him  a  time  of  freedom?  Would  she  ever  die? 
He  was  older  than  she,  and  of  course  he  would 
die  first.  Would  it  not  be  a  fine  tiling  if  he 
could  die  at  once,  and  thus  escape  from  his  mis- 
ery? 

What  could  he  do,  even  supposing  himself 
strong  enough  to  fight  the  battle?  He  could 
not  lock  her  up.  He  could  not  even  very  well 
lock  her  out  of  his  room.  She  was  his  wife, 
and  must  have  the  run  of  his  house.  He  could 
not  altogether  debar  her  from  the  society  of  the 
diocesan  clergymen.  He  had,  on  this  very 
morning,  taken  strong  measures  with  her. 
More  than  once  or  twice  he  had  desired  her 
to  leave  the  room.  What  was  there  to  be 
done  with  a  woman  who  would  not  obey  her 
husband — who  ivould  not  even  leave  him  to 
the  performance  of  his  own  work  ?  What  a 
blessed  thing  it  would  be  if  a  bishop  could  go 
away  from  his  home  to  his  work  every  day  like 
a  clerk  in  a  public  oiFice — as  a  stone-mason 
does!  But  there  was  no  such  escape  for  him. 
He  could  not  go  away.  And  how  was  he  to 
meet  her  again  on  this  very  day  ? 

And  then  for  hours  he  thought  of  Dr.  Tem- 
pest and  Mr.  Crawlej%  considering  what  he  had 
better  do  to  rejiair  the  shipwreck  of  the  morn- 
ing. At  last  ho  resolved  that  he  would  write 
to  the  doctor ;  and  before  he  had  again  seen  his 
wife  he  did  write  his  letter,  and  he  sent  it  off. 
In  this  letter  he  made  no  direct  allusion  to  the 
occurrence  of  the  morning,  but  wrote  as  though 
there  had  not  been  any  fixed  intention  of  a  per- 
sonal discussion  between  them.  "I  think  it 
will  be  better  that  thei'e  should  be  a  commis- 
sion," he  said,  "and  I  would  suggest  that  you 
should  have  four  other  clergymen  Mith  j-ou. 
Perhaps  you  wuU  select  two  yourself  out  of  your 
rural  deanery;  and,  if  you  do  not  object,  I  will 
name  as  the  other  two  Mr.  Thumble  and  Mr. 
Quiverful,  who  are  both  resident  in  the  city." 
As  he  wrote  these  two  names  he  felt  ashamed 
of  himself,  knowing  that  he  had  chosen  the  two 
men  as  being  special  friends  of  his  wife,  and 
feeling- that  he  should  have  been  brave  enough 
to  throw  aside  all  considerations  of  his  wife's  fa- 
vor— especially  at  this  moment,  in  which  he 
was  putting  on  his  armor  to  do  battle  against 
her.  "It  is  not  probable,"  he  continued  to  say 
in  his  letter,  "  that  you  will  be  able  to  make 
your  report  until  after  the  trial  of  this  unfor- 
tunate gentleman  sliall  have  taken  place,  and  a 
verdict  sliall  have  been  given.  Sliould  he  bo 
acquitted,  that,  I  imagine,  should  end  the  mat- 
ter. There  can  be  no  reason  why  we  should 
attempt  to  go  beyond  the  verdict  of  a  jury. 


210 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


But  slionld  he  ho  found  Ruilty,  I  think  we  ought 
to  be  rea.ly  witli  such  steps  as  it  will  be  becom- 
ing for  us  to  take  at  the  expiration  of  any  sen- 
tence whieii  may  be  pronounced.  It  will  be, 
at  anv  rate,  expedient  that  in  such  case  the 
niaftL'r  sliould  be  brought  before  an  ecclesias- 
tieal  court."'  lie  knew  well  as  he  wrote  this 
tliat  he.  was  proposing  sometliiug  nincli  milder 
than  tlic  co\irse  intended  by  his  wife  when  slie 
had  instigated  him  to  take  proceedings  in  the 
matter ;  luit  he  did  not  much  regard  that  now, 
Tliongh  ho  liad  been  weak  cnougli  to  name  cer- 
Uxin  clergymen  as  assessors  with  the  rural  dean, 
because  lie  thought  that  by  doing  so  he  would 
to  a  certain  degree  conciliate  his  wife — though 
he  had  been  so  far  a  coward,  yet  he  was  re- 
solved that  he  would  not  sacrifice  to  her  his 
own  judgment  and  his  own  conscience  in  his 
manner  of  proceeding.  He  kept  no  copy  of 
his  letter,  so  that  he  might  be  unable  to  show 
lier  his  very  words  when  she  should  ask  to  see 
them.  Of  course  he  would  tell  her  what  he 
liad  done;  but  in  telling  her  he  would  keep  to 
himself  what  he  had  said  as  to  the  result  of  an 
acquittal  in  a  civil  court.  She  need  not  yet  be 
told  that  he  had  promised  to  take  such  a  ver- 
dict as  sufficing  also  for  an  ecclesiastical  ac- 
quittal. In  this  spirit  his  letter  was  written 
and  sent  off  before  he  again  saw  his  wife. 

He  did  not  meet  her  till  they  came  together 
in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner.  In  ex- 
plaining the  whole  truth  as  to  circumstances  as 
they  existed  at  the  palace  at  that  moment,  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  Mrs.  Proudie  her- 
self, great  as  was  her  courage,  and  wide  as  were 
the  resources  which  she  possessed  within  her- 
self, was  somewhat  appalled  by  the  position  of 
affairs.  I  fear  that  it  may  now  be  too  late  for 
me  to  excite  much  sympathy  in  the  mind  of 
any  reader  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Proudie.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  make  her  virtues  popular.  But 
she  had  virtues,  and  their  existence  now  made 
lier  unliai)py.  She  did  regard  the  dignity  of 
her  husband,  and  she  felt  at  the  present  mo- 
ment that  she  had  almost  compromised  it.  She 
did  also  regard  the  welfare  of  the  clergymen 
around  her,  thinking  of  course  in  a  general  way 
that  certain  of  them  who  agreed  with  her  were 
the  clorgymen  whose  welfare  should  be  studied, 
and  that  certain  of  them  who  disagreed  with  her 
were  the  clergymen  whose  welfare  should  be 
postponed.  But  now  an  idea  made  its  way  into 
her  bosom  that  she  was  not  perhaps  doing  the 
best  for  the  welfare  of  the  diocese  generally. 
What  if  it  should  come  to  pass  that  all  the 
clergymen  of  the  diocese  should  refuse  to  open 
their  moutiis  in  her  presence  on  ecclesiastical 
subjects,  as  Dr.  Tempest  had  done  ?  This  spe- 
cial day  was  not  one  on  which  she  was  well 
contented  with  hei'self,  though  by  no  means  on 
that  account  was  her  anger  mitigated  against 
the  offending  rural  dean. 

During  dinner  she  struggled  to  say  a  word 
or  two  to  her  husband,  as  though  there  had 
been  no  quarrel  between  them.  With  him  the 
matter  had  gone  so  deep  that  he  could  not  an- 


swer her  in  the  same  spirit.  There  were  sun- 
dry members  of  the  family  jjresent — daughters, 
and  a  son-in-law,  and  a  daughter's  friend  who 
was  staying  with  them ;  but  even  in  the  hope 
of  appearing  to  be  serene  before  them  he  could 
not  struggle  through  his  deep  despondence. 
He  was  very  silent,  and  to  his  wife's  words  he 
answered  hardly  any  thing.  He  was  courteous 
and  gentle  with  them  all,  but  he  spoke  as  little 
as  was  possible,  and  during  the  evening  he  sat 
alone,  with  his  head  leaning  on  liis  hand,  not 
l^rctending  even  to  read.  He  was  aware  that 
it  was  too  late  to  make  even  an  attem])t  to  con- 
ceal his  misery  and  his  disgrace  from  his  own 
family. 

His  wife  came  to  him  that  night  in  his  dress- 
ing-room in  a  s])irit  of  feminine  softness  that 
was  very  unusual  with  her.  "My  dear,"  said 
she,  "let  us  forget  what  occurred  this  morning. 
If  there  has  been  any  anger  we  are  bound  as 
Christians  to  forget  it."  She  stood  over  him  as 
she  spoke,  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder 
almost  caressingly. 

"When  a  man's  heart  is  broken  he  can  not 
forget  it,"  was  his  reply.  She  still  stood  by 
him,  and  still  kept  her  hand  upon  him  ;  but  she 
could  think  of  no  other  words  of  comfort  to  say. 
"I  will  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  best 
place  for  me."  Then  she  left  him,  and  he  went 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

THE  SOFTNESS  OF  SIR  KAFFLE  BUFFLE. 

We  have  seen  that  John  Eames  was  prepared 
to  start  on  his  journey  in  search  of  the  Arabins, 
and  have  seen  him  after  he  had  taken  farewell 
of  his  office  and  of  his  master  there,  previous  to 
his  departure  ;  but  that  matter  of  his  departure 
had  not  been  arranged  altogether  with  comfort 
as  far  as  his  offi^^ial  interests  were  concerned. 
He  had  been  perhaps  a  little  abrupt  in  his  mode 
of  informing  Sir  Raffle  Buffle  that  there  was  a 
pressing  cause  for  his  official  absence,  and  Sir 
Raffle  had  replied  to  him  that  no  private  press- 
ure could  be  allowed  to  interfere  Avith  his  public 
duties.  "I  must  go,  Sir  Raffle,  at  any  rate," 
Johnny  had  said  ;  "it  is  a  matter  affecting  my 
family,  and  must  not  be  neglected."  "If  you 
intend  to  go  without  leave,"  said  Sir  Raffle,  "  I 
presume  you  will  first  put  your  resignation  into 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Kissing."  Now  Mr.  Kissing 
was  the  secretary  to  the  Board.  This  had  been 
serious,  undoubtedly.  John  Eames  was  not 
specially  anxious  to  keep  his  present  position  as 
private  secretary  to  Sir  Raffle,  but  he  certainly 
had  no  desire  to  give  up  his  profession  alto- 
gether. He  said  nothing  more  to  the  great 
man  on  that  occasion,  but  before  he  left  the  of- 
fice he  wrote  a  private  note  to  the  chairman  ex- 
pressing the  extreme  importance  of  his  busi- 
ness, and  begging  that  he  might  liave  leave  of 
absence.  On  the  next  morning  he  received  it 
Iback  with  a  very  few  words  written  across  it. 
"It  can't  be  dofte,"  were  the  very  few  words 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


211 


■wliieli  Sir  Raffle  Buffle  had  written  across  the 
note  from  his  private  secretary.  Here  was  a 
dillicuhy  which  Johnny  had  not  anticipated, 
and  wliich  seemed  to  be  insujicrable.  Sir  Raf- 
lio  would  not  liavc  answered  him  in  that  strain 
if  he  liad  not  been  very  much  in  earnest. 

*'I  should  send  him  a  medical  certificate," 
said  Cradell,  his  friend  of  old. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Eames. 

"I  don't  sec  that  it's  nonsense  at  all.  They 
can't  get  over  a  medical  certificate  from  a  re- 
spectable man ;  and  every  body  has  got  some- 
thing tlic  matter  with  him  of  some  kind." 

"  I  should  go,  and  let  him  do  his  worst,"  said 
Fisher,  wlio  was  another  clerk.  "  It  wouldn't 
be  more  than  putting  you  down  a  place  or  two. 
As  to  losing  your  present  berth  you  don't  mind 
that,  and  they  would  never  think  of  dismissing 
you." 

"But  I  do  mind  being  put  down  a  place  or 
two,"  said  Johnny,  who  could  not  forget  that 
were  he  so  put  down  his  friend  Fisher  would 
gain  the  step  which  he  would  lose. 

"J  should  give  him  a  barrel  of  oysters,  and 
talk  to  him  about  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer," said  FitzHoward,  who  had  been  pri- 
vate secretary  to  Sir  Raffle  before  Eames,  and 
might  therefore  be  supposed  to  know  the  man. 

"That  might  have  done  very  well  if  I  had 
not  asked  him  and  been  refused  first,"  said  John 
Eames.  "  FU  tell  you  what  I'll  do :  I'll  write 
a  long  letter  on  a  sheet  of  foolscap  paper,  with 
a  regular  margin,  so  that  it  must  come  before 
the  Board,  and  perhaps  that  will  frighten  him." 

When  he  mentioned  his  difficulty  on  that 
evening  to  !^[r.  Toogood,  the  lawyer  bogged  him 
to  give  up  the  journey.  "It  will  only  be  send- 
ing a  clerk,  and  it  won't  cost  so  very  much 
after  all,"  said  Toogood.  But  Johnny's  pride 
could  not  allow  him  to  give  way.  "I'm  not 
going  to  be  done  about  it,"  said  he.  "I'm  not 
going  to  resign,  but  I  will  go,  even  though  they 
may  dismiss  me.  I  don't  think  it  will  come  to 
'that,  but  if  it  does  it  must."  His  uncle  begged 
of  him  not  to  think  of  such  an  alternative  ;  but 
this  discussion  took  place  after  dinner,  and  away 
from  the  office,  and  Eames  would  not  submit  to 
bow  his  neck  to  authority.  "If  it  comes  to 
that,"  said  he,  "a  fellow  migiit  as  well  be  a 
Islave  at  once.  And  what  is  the  use  of  a  fellow 
having  a  little  money  if  it  does  not  make  him 
independent  ?  You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing, 
I  shall  go ;  and  that  on  the  day  fixed." 

On  the  next  morning  John  Eames  was  very 
isilent  when  he  went  into  Sir  Raffle's  room  at 
Ithe  office.  There  was  now  only  this  day  and.' 
another  before  that  fixed  for  his  departure,  and 
lit  was  of  course  very  necessary  that  matters 
should  be  arranged.  But  he  said  nothing  to 
Sir  Raffle  during  the  morning.  The  gi-eat  man 
himself  was  condescending,  and  endeavored  to 
be  kind.  He  knew  that  his  stern  refusal  had 
greatly  irritated  his  private  secretary,  and  was 
anxious  to  show  that,  though  in  the  cause  of 
public  duty  he  was  obliged  to  be  stern,  he  was 
quite  willing  to  forget  his  sternness  when  the 


necessity  for  it  had  passed  away.  On  this 
morning,  therefore,  he  was  very  cheery.  But 
to  all  his  cheery  good-humoi'  John  Eames  would 
make  no  response.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
most  of  the  men  had  left  the  oflice,  Johnny  ap- 
peared before  the  chairman  for  the  last  time  that 
day  with  a  very  long  face.  He  was  dressed  in 
black,  and  had  changed  his  ordinary  morning- 
coat  for  a  frock,  which  gave  him  an  appearanco 
altogether  unlike  that  which  was  customary  to 
him.  And  he  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  very 
slowly ;  and  when  Sir  Raffle  joked — and  Sir 
Raffle  often  would  joke — he  not  only  did  not 
laugh,  but  he  absolutely  sighed.  "Is  there  any 
thing  the  matter  with  you,  Eames  ?"  asked  Sir 
Raffle. 

"I  am  in  great  trouble,"  said  John  Eames. 

"And  what  is  your  trouble?" 

"  It  is  essential  for  the  honor  of  one  of  my 
family  that  I  should  be  at  Florence  by  this  day 
week.  I  can  not  make  up  my  mind  wiiat  I 
ought  to  do.  I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  position 
in  the  public  service,  to  which,  as  you  know,  I 
am  warmly  attached  ;  but  I  can  not  submit  to 
see  the  honor  of  my  family  sacrificed  !" 

"Eames,"  said  Sir  Raffle,  "that  must  be 
nonsense — that  must  be  nonsense.  There  can 
be  no  reason  why  you  should  always  expect  to 
have  your  own  way  in  every  thing." 

"Of  course  if  I  go  without  leave  I  shall  be 
dismissed." 

"Of  course  you  will.  It  is  out  of  t!ie  ques- 
tion that  a  young  man  should  take  the  bit  be- 
tween his  teeth  in  that  way." 

"As  for  taking  the  bit  between  his  teeth.  Sir 
Raffle,  I  do  not  think  that  any  man  was  ever 
more  obedient,  perhaps  I  should  say  more  sub- 
missive, than  I  have  been.  But  tliere  must  be 
a  limit  to  every  thing." 

""What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Eames?" 
said  Sir  Raffle,  turning  in  anger  upon  his  pri- 
vate secretary.  But  Johnny  disregarded  his 
anger.  Johnny,  indeed,  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  Sir  Raffle  should  be  very  angry.  "What 
do  you  mean,  Mr.  Eames,  by  saying  that  there 
must  be  a  limit  ?  I  know  nothing  about  limits. 
One  would  suppose  that  you  intended  to  make 
an  accusation  against  me." 

"  So  I  do.  I  think,  Sir  Raflle,  that  you  are 
treating  me  with  great  cruelty.  I  have  ex- 
plained to  you  that  fiimily  circumstances — " 

"You  have  explained  nothing,  Mr.  Eames." 

"Yes,  I  have.  Sir  Raffle.  I  have  explained 
to  you  tliat  matters  relating  to  my  family,  which 
materially  aflect  the  honor  of  a  certain  one  of 
its  members,  demand  that  I  should  go  at  once 
to  Florence.  You  tell  me  that  if  I  go  I  shall  be 
dismissed." 

"Of  course  you  must  not  go  without  leave. 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  all  my  life." 
And  Sir  Raffle  lifted  up  his  hands  toward  heaven, 
almost  in  dismay. 

"  So  I  have  drawn  up  a  short  statement  of 
the  circumstances,  which  I  hope  may  be  read  at 
the  Board  when  the  question  of  my  dismissal 
comes  before  it." 


212 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  You  nicnn  to  go,  tlicn  ?"  I       "  No  ;  you  do  not,"  said  Johnnv. 

"Yes,  SirRalHc;  I  must  po.  The  lionor  of  |  "  Can't  you  explain  it  to  me,  then?  so  that 
a  certain  branch  oP  my  family  demands  that  I  I  may  have  some  reason — if  there  is  any  reason." 
should  do  so.  As  I  have  for  some  time  been  so  |  Then  John  told  the  story  of  Mr.  Crawley — a 
especially  under  you,  I  thoup;ht  it  would  be  considerable  portion  of  the  story ;  and  in  his  tell- 
proper  to  sliow  you  what  I  have  said  before  l/ingofitlthinkitprobablcthatheputmoreweight 
send  my  letter  in,  and  therefore  I  have  brought''  ujion  the  necessity  of  his  mission  to  Italy  than 
it  with  mo.  Here  it  is."  And  Johnny  handed  i  it  could  have  fairly  been  made  to  bear.  In  the 
to  Sir  RatHe  an  official  document  of  large  dimcn-    course  of  the  narration  Sir  Raffle  did  once  con- 


Sir  Raffle  began  to  be  uncomfortable.  •  lie 
had  acquired  a  character  for  tyranny  in  the  pub- 
lic service  of  which  he  was  aware,  though  lie 
tliought  that  he  knew  well  that  he  had  never 
deserved  it.  Some  official  big-wig — perhaps 
that  Cliancellor  of  the  Excheiiuer  of  whom  he 
was  so  fond — had  on  one  occasion  hinted  to  him 
that  a  little  softness  of  usage  would  be  compat- 
ible witli  the  i)rejudices  of  the  age.  Softness 
was  impossible  to  Sir  Raffle ;  but  his  temper  was 
sufflciemly  under  his  control  to  enable  him  to 
encounter  the  rebuke,  and  to  pull  liimself  up 
from  time  to  time  when  he  found  himself  tempt- 
ed to  speak  loud  and  to  take  things  with  a  high 
hand.  He  knew  that  a  clerk  should  not  be  dis- 
missed for  leaving  his  office  who  could  show 
tliat  his  absence  had  been  caused  by  some  mat- 
ter really  affecting  the  interest  of  his  family ; 
and  that  were  he  to  drive  Eames  to  go  on  this 
occasion  without  leave,  Eames  would  be  simply 
called  in  to  state  what  was  this  matter  of  mo. 
ment  wiiich  had  taken  him  awaj'.  Probably  he 
had  stated  that  matter  of  moment  in  this  very 
document  which  Sir  Raffle  was  holding  in  his 
hand.  But  Sir  Raffle  was  not  willing  to  be  con- 
quered by  the  document.  If  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  give  way,  he  would  much  prefer 
to  give  way — out  of  his  own  good-nature,  let  us 
say — without  looking  at  the  document  at  all. 
"I  must,  under  the  circumstances,  decline  to 
read  tliis,"  said  ho,  "unless  it  should  come  be- 
fore me  officially ;"  and  he  handed  back  the 
paper. 

"I  thought  it  best  to  let  you  sec  it  if  you 
pleased,"  said  John  Eames.  Then  he  turned 
round  as  though  he  were  going  to  leave  the  room ; 
but  suddenly  he  turned  back  again.  "I  don't 
like  to  leave  you,  Sir  Raffle,  without  saying  good- 
by.  I  do  not  suppose  we  shall  meet  again.  Of 
course  you  must  do  your  duty,  and  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  think  that  I  have  any  personal  ill-will 
against  you."  So  saying  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
Sir  Raffle  as  thougli  to  take  a  final  farewell. 
Sir  Rafflo  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  He 
was  dressed,  as  has  been  said,  in  black,  and  did 
not  look  like  the  John  Eames  of  every  day  to 
whom  Sir  Raffle  was  accustomed. 

"I  don't  understand  this  at  all,"  said  Sir 
Raffle. 

"  I  was  afraid  that  it  was  only  too  plain," 
said  John  Eames. 

"  And  you  must  go  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  that's  certain.  I  have  pledged 
myself  to  go." 

"Of  course  I  don't  know  any  thing  of  this 
matter  that  is  so  important  to  your  family." 


trive  to  suggest  that  a  lawyer  by  going  to  Flor- 
ence might  do  the  business  at  any  rate  as  well 
as  John  Eames.  But  Johnny  denied  this. 
"No,  Sir  Raffle,  it  is  impossible — quite  impossi- 
ble," he  said.  "If  you  saw  the  lawyer  who  is 
acting  in  the  matter,  Mr.  Toogood,  who  is  also 
my  uncle,  he  would  tell  you  the  same."  Sir 
Raffle  had  already  heard  something  of  the  story 
of  Mr.  Crawley,  and  was  now  willing  to  accept 
the  sad  tragedy  of  that  case  as  an  excuse  for  his 
private  secretary's  somewhat  insubordinate  con- 
duct. "Under  the  circumstances,  Eames,  I 
suppose  you  must  go;  but  I  think  you  should 
have  told  me  all  about  it  before." 
/  "I  did  not  like  to  trouble  you,  Sir  Raffle, 
with  private  business." 

' '  It  is  always  best  to  tell  the  whole  of  a  story," 
said  Sir  Raffle.  Johnny,  being  quite  content 
with  the  upshot  of  the  negotiations,  accepted 
this  gentle  rebuke  in  silence,  and  withdrew. 
On  the  next  day  he  appeared  again  at  the  office 
in  his  ordinary  costume,  and  an  idea  crossed  Sir 
Raffle's  brain  that  he  had  been  partly  "done" 
by  the  aflt'ectation  of  a  costume.  "  I'll  be  even 
with  him  some  day  yet,"  said  Sir  Raffle  to  him- 
self. 

"  I've  got  my  leave,  boys,"  said  Eames,  when 
he  went  out  into  the  room  in  which  his  three 
friends  sat. 

"No!"  said  Cradell. 
"  But  I  have,"  said  Johnny. 
"  You  don't  mean  that  old  Huffie  Scuffle  has 
given  it  out  of  his  own  head,"  said  Fisher. 

"Indeed  he  has,"  said  Johnny;  "and  bade. 
God  bless  mc  into  the  bargain." 

"And  you  didn't  give  him  the  oysters  ?"  said 
FitzHoward. 

"  Not  a  shell,"  said  Johnny. 
"  I'm  blessed  if  you  don't  beat  cock-fighting," 
said  Cradell,  lost  in  admiration  at  his  friend's 
adroitness. 

We  know  how  Johnny  passed  his  evening  aft- 
er that.  He  went  first  to  see  Lily  Dale  at  her 
/uncle's  lodgings  in  Sackville  Street,  from  thence 
he  was  taken  to  the  presence  of  the  charming 
Madalina  in  Porchester  Terrace,  and  then 
wound  up  the  night  with  his  friend  Conway  Dal- 
rymple.  When  he  got  to  his  bed  he  felt  himself 
to  have  been  triumphant,  but  in  spite  of  his  tri- 
umph he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  Why  had 
he  left  Lily  to  go  to  Madalina  ?  As  he  thought 
of  this  he  quoted  to  himself  against  himself 
Hamlet's  often-quoted  appeal  to  the  two  por- 
traits. How  could  he  not  despise  himself  in 
that  he  could  find  any  pleasure  with  Madalina, 
having  a  Lily  Dale  to  fill  his  thoughts  ?  "  But 
she  is  not  fair  for  me,"  ho  said  to  himself— 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


213 


"as  kigut  as  a  TravET,  uncle." 


thinking  thus  to  comfort  himself.     But  he  did 
not  comfort  himself. 

On  the  next  morning  early  his   uncle,  Mr. 
Poogood,  met  him  at  the  Dover  Railway  Sta- 
tion.     "  Upon  my  word,  Johnny,  you're  a  clev- 
r  fellow,"  said  he.     "  I  never  thought  that  you'd 
make  it  all  right  with  Sir  Raffle." 

"As  right  as  a   trivet,  uncle.       There   are 
5ome  people,  if  you  can  only  get  to  learn  the 
"length  of  their  feet,  you  can  always  fit   them 
!with  shoes  afterward." 


"You'll  go  on  direct  to  Florence,  John- 
ny ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  so.  From  what  we  have  heard, 
Mrs.  Arabin  must  be  cither  there  or  at  Venice, 
and  I  don't  suppose  I  could  learn  from  any  one 
at  Paris  at  which  town  she  is  staying  at  tliis  mo- 
ment." 

"  Her  address  is  Florence — postc  restantc, 
Florence.  You  will  be  sure  to  find  out  at  any 
of  the  hotels  where  she  is  staying,  or  where  sho 
has  been  staying." 


214 


THE  LAST  CIIROXICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  But  when  I  have  found  her,  I  don't  suppose 
she  can  tell  me  any  thing,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Wlio  can  tell  ?  She  may  or  she  may  not. 
My  belief  is  that  the  money  was  her  ])resent  al- 
together, and  not  his.  It  seems  that  they  don't 
mix  their  moneys.  lie  has  always  had  some 
scruple  about  it  because  of  her  son  by  a  former 
marriage,  and  they  always  have  ditferent  ac- 
counts at  their  bankers.  I  found  that  out  when 
I  was  at  Barchester." 

"But  Crawley  was  his  friend." 

"Yes,  Crawley  was  his  friend;  but  I  don't 
know  that  fifty-jiound  notes  have  always  been  so 
very  jilentiful  with  him.  Deans'  incomes  ain't 
what  they  were,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  that,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  Well ;  tliey  are  not.  And  he  has  nothing 
of  his  own,  as  far  as  I  can  learn.  It  would  be 
just  the  tiling  for  her  to  do — to  give  the  money 
to  his  friend.  At  any  rate  she  will  tell  you 
whether  it  was  so  or  not." 

"  And  then  I  will  go  on  to  Jerusalem  after 
him." 

"Should  you  find  it  necessary.  lie  will 
probably  be  on  his  way  back,  and  she  will  know 
where  you  can  hit  him  on  the  road.  You  must 
make  luin  understand  that  it  is  essential  that  he 
should  be  here  some  little  time  before  the  tri- 
al. You  can  understand,  Johnny" — and  as  he 
spoke  jMr.  Toogood  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whis- 
per, tliough  they  were  walking  together  on  the 
platform  of  the  railway  station,  and  could  not 
possibly  have  been  overheard  by  any  one.  "  You 
can  understand  that  it  may  be  necessary  to 
prove  that  he  is  not  exactly  compos  mentis,  and 
if  so  it  will  be  essential  that  he  should  have  some 
influential  friend  near  him.  Otherwise  that 
bishop  will  trample  him  into  dust."  If  Mr. 
Toogood  could  have  seen  the  bishop  at  this  time, 
and  have  read  the  troubles  of  the  poor  man's 
heart,  he  would  hardly  have  spoken  of  him  as 
being  so  terrible  a  tyrant. 

"  I  understand  all  that,"  said  Johnny. 

"  So  that,  in  fact,  I  shall  expect  to  see  yon 
both  together,"  said  Toogood. 

"  I  hope  the  dean  is  a  good  fellow." 

"They  tell  me  he  is  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  I  never  did  see  much  of  bishops  or  deans  as 
yet,"  said  Johnny,  "and  I  sliould  feel  rather 
awe-struck  traveling  with  one." 

"I  should  fancy  that  a  dean  is  very  much 
like  any  body  else." 

"But  the  man's  hat  would  cow  me." 

"I  dare  say  you'll  find  him  walking  about 
Jerusalem  with  a  wide-awake  on,  and  a  big 
stick  in  his  hand,  probably  smoking  a  cigar. 
Deans  contrive  to  get  out  of  their  armor  some- 
times, as  the  knights  of  old  used  to  do.  Bish- 
ops, I  fancy,  find  it  more  difficult.  Well — good- 
by,  old  fellow.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  going — I  am  indeed.  I  don't  doubt  but 
what  we  shall  pull  through  somehow." 

Then  Mr.  Toogood  went  home  to  breakfast, 
and  from  his  own  house  he  proceeded  to  his  of- 
fice.    When  he  had  been  there  au  hour  or  two 


there  came  to  him  a  messenger  from  the  In- 
come-tax Office,  with  an  official  note  addressed 
to  himself  by  Sir  liafflc  Buffle — a  note  which 
looked  to  be  very  official.  Sir  Raffle  Baffle  pre- 
sented his  com])liments  to  Mr.  Toogood,  ami 
could  Mr.  Toogood  favor  Sir  R.  B.  with  the 
])resent  address  of  ^Ir.  John  Eamcs.  "  Old 
fox," said  Mr.  Toogood — "but  then  such  a  stu- 
pid old  fox !  As  if  it  was  likely  that  I  shoidd 
have  peached  on  Johnny  if  any  thing  was 
wrong."  So  Mr.  Toogood  sent  his  comidiments 
to  Sir  Ruffle  Raffle,  and  begged  to  inform  Sir 
R.  B.  that  jNlr.  John  Eames  was  away  on  vciy 
particular  family  business,  which  would  take 
him  in  the  first  instance  to  Florence — but  tiiat 
from  Florence  he  would  probably  have  to  go  on 
to  Jerusalem  without  the  loss  of  an  hour. 
"Stupid  old  fool!"  said  jNIr.  Toogood,  as  he 
sent  oft"  his  reply  by  the  messenger. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


NEAR     TIIK     CLOSE. 


I  WONDER  whether  any  one  will  read  these 
Images  who  has  never  known  any  thing  of  the  bit- 
terness of  a  family  quarrel  ?  If  so,  I  shall  have 
a  reader  very  fortunate,  or  else  very  cold-blood- 
ed. It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  love  pro- 
duces quarrels ;  but  love  does  produce  those  in- 
timate relations  of  which  quarreling  is  too  often 
one  of  the  consequences — one  of  the  conse- 
quences which  frequently  seem  to  be  so  natural, 
and  sometimes  seem  to  be  unavoidable.  One 
brother  rebukes  the  other — and  Avhat  brothers 
ever  lived  together  between  whom  there  was  no 
such  rebuking  ? — then  some  warm  word  is  mis- 
understood and  hotter  words  follow  and  there  is 
a  quarrel.  The  husband  tyrannizes,  knowing 
that  it  is  his  duty  to  direct,  and  the  wife  dis- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


215 


obeys,  or  only  partially  obcy<!,  thinking  that  a 
little  independence  will  become  her  —  and  so 
there  is  a  quarrel.  The  fiither,  anxious  only  for 
his  son's  good,  looks  into  that  son's  future  with 
otiicr  eyes  than  those  of  his  son  himself — and  so 
there  is  a  quarrel.  They  come  very  easily,  these 
quarrels,  but  the  quittance  from  them  is  some- 
times terribly  difficult.  Much  of  thought  is  nec- 
essary before  the  angry  man  can  remember  that 
he  too  in  part  may  have  been  wrong ;  and  any 
attempt  at  such  thinking  is  almost  beyond  the 
power  of  him  who  is  carefully  nursing  his  wrath 
lest  it  cool !  But  the  nursing  of  such  quarrel- 
ing kills  all  happiness.  The  very  man  who  is 
nursing  his  wrath  lest  it  cool — his  wrath  against 
one  whom  he  loves  jierhaps  the  best  of  all  whom 
it  has  been  given  him  to  love — is  liimsclf  wretch- 
ed as  long  as  it  lasts.  His  anger  poisons  every 
pleasure  of  his  life.  He  is  sullen  at  his  meals, 
and  can  not  understand  his  book  as  he  turns  its 
pages.  His  work,  let  it  be  what  it  may,  is  ill 
done.  He  is  full  of  his  quarrel — nursing  it. 
He  is  telling  himself  how  much  he  has  loved  that 
wicked  one,  how  many  have  been  his  sacrifices 
for  that  wicked  one,  and  that  now  tliat  wicked 
one  is  repaying  him  simply  with  wickedness ! 
And  yet  the  wicked  one  is  at  that  very  moment 
dearer  to  him  tlian  ever.  If  that  wicked  one 
could  only  be  forgiven  how  sweet  would  the 
world  be  again  !  And  yet  he  nurses  his  wrath. 
So  it  was  in  these  c!a_\s  with  Archdeacon' 
Grantly.  He  was  very  aingry  with  his  son.  It 
is  hardly  too  much  to  sny  tliat  in  every  moment 
of  his  life,  whether  working  or  sleeping,  he  was 
thinking  of  the  injury  that  his  son  was  doing 
him.  He  had  almost  come  to  foi>pet  the  fact 
that  his  anger  had  first  been  roused  by  the  feel- 
ing that  his  son  was  about  to  do  himself  an  in- 
jury— to  cut  his  own  throat.  Various  other 
considerations  had  now  added  themselves  to 
that,  and  filled  not  only  his  mind  but  his  daily 
conversation  with  his  wife.  How  terrible  would 
be  tjie  disgrace  to  Lord  Hartletop,  how  incurable 
the  injury  to  Griselda,  the  marchioness,  should 
the  brother-in-law  of  the  one,  and  the  brother 
of  the  other,  marry  the  daughter  of  a  convicted 
thief!  "Of  himself  he  would  say  nothing-." 
So  he  declaued  constantly,  though  of  himself  he 
did  say  a  great  deal.  "  Of  himself  he  would 
say  nothing,  though  of  course  such  a  marriage 
would  ruin  him  in  the  county."     "My  dear," 

■  said  his  wife,  "that  is  nonsense.  That  really  is 
nonsense.     I  feel  sure  there  is  not  a  single  per- 

■  son  in  the  county  who  would  think  of  the  mar- 
riage in  sucli  a  light."     Then  flie  archdeacon 

,  would  have  quarreled  with  his  wife  too,  had  she 
not  been  too  wise  to  admit  such  a  quarrel.  Mrs. 
Grantly  was  very  wise,  and  knew  that  it  took  two 
persons  to  make  a  quarrel.     He  told  her  over 

1  and  over  again  that  she  was  in  league  with  her 
son — that  she  was  encouraging  her  son  to  marry 
Grace  Crawley.  "I  believe  that  in  your  heart 
you  wish  it,"  he  once  said  to  her.  "No,  my 
dear,  I  do  not  wish  it.  I  do  not  think  it  a  be- 
coming marriage.  But  if  he  does  marry  her  I 
should  wish  to  receive  his  wife  in  my  house,  and 


certainly  should  not  quaiTcl  with  him. "  "  I  will 
never  receive  her,"  the  archdeacon  had  replied; 
"  and  as  for  him,  I  can  only  say  that  in  such  case 
I  will  make  no  provision  for  his  family." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  archdeacon 
had  on  a  former  occasion  instructed  his  wife  to 
write  to  their  son  and  tell  him  of  his  father's  de- 
termination. Mrs.  Grantly  had  so  manceuvred 
that  a  little  time  had  been  gained,  and  that  those 
instructions  had  not  been  insisted  ujion  in  all 
their  bitterness.  Since  that  time  Major  Grantly 
had  renewed  his  assurance  that  he  would  marry 
Grace  CrAwley  if  Grace  Crawley  would  accept 
him — writing  on  this  occasion  direct  to  his  fa- 
ther— and  had  asked  his  father  whether,  in  such 
case,  he  was  to  look  forward  to  be  disinherited. 
"It  is  essential  that  I  should  know,"  the  major 
had  said,  "  because  in  such  case  I  must  take 
immediate  measures  for  leaving  this  place." 
His  father  had  sent  him  back  his  letter,  writing 
a  few  words  at  the  bottom  of  it.  "If  you  do 
as  you  propose  above,  you  must  expect  nothing 
from  me."  The  words  were  written  in  large, 
I  round  handwriting,  very  hurriedly,  and  the  son 
when  he  received  them  perfectly  understood  the 
mood  of  his  father's  mind  when  lie  wrote  them. 
Then  there  came  tidings,  addressed  on  this 
occasion  to  IMrs.  Grantly,  that  Cosby  Lodge  was 
to  be  given  up.  Lady-day  had  come,  and  the 
notice,  necessarily  to  bo  given  at  that  period, 
was  so  given.  "I  know  this  will  grieve  you," 
Major  Grantly  liad  said,  "but  my  father  has 
driven  me  to  it."  This,  in  itself,  was  a  cause 
of  great  sorrow,  both  to  the  archdeacon  and  to 
Mrs.  Grantly,  as  there  were  circumstances  con- 
nected with  Cosby  Lodge  which  made  them 
think  that  it  was  a  very  desirable  residence  for 
their  son.  "I  shall  sell  every  thing  about  the 
place  and  go  abroad  at  once,"  he  said  in  a  sub- 
sequent letter.  "  My  present  idea  is  that  I 
shall  settle  myself  at  Pan,  as  my  income  will 
suffice  for  me  to  live  there,  and  education  for 
Edith  will  be  cheap.  At  any  rate  I  will  not 
continue  in  England.  I  could  never  be  happy 
here  in  circumstances  so  altered.  Of  course  I 
should  not  have  left  my  profession  unless  I  had 
understood  from  my  father  that  the  income  aris- 
ing from  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  me.  I 
do  not,  however,  mean  to  comjilain,  but  simply 
tell  you  that  I  shall  go."  There  were  many 
letters  between  the  mother  and  son  in  those 
days.  "  I  shall  stay  till  after  the  trial, "he  said. 
"If  she  will  then  go  with  me,  well  and  good  j, 
but  whether  she, will  or  not,  I  shall  not  remain 
here."  All  this  seemed  to  Mrs.  Grantly  to  be 
peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  had  he  not  resolved 
to  go  things  might  even  yet  have  riglitcd  them- 
selves. From  what  she  could  now  understand 
of  the  character  of  INIiss  Crawley,  whom  she  did 
not  know  personally,  she  thought  it  probable 
that  Grace,  in  the  event  of  her  fathcv  being 
found  guilty  by  the  jury,  would  absolutely  and 
persistently  refuse  the  oft'cr  made  to  her.  She 
would  be  too  good,  as  Mrs.  Grantly  put  it  to 
herself,  to  bring  misery  and  disgrace  into  an- 
other family.     But  should  JMr.  Crawley  be  ac- 


21G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


quitted,  mill  should  the  inan-iaj;e  then  take 
l)lace,  the  archdeacon  liimsclf  might  ])robably 
lie  got  to  forgive  it.  In  either  case  there  would 
ha  no  necessity  for  breaking  up  the  liouse  at 
Cosby  Lodge.  But  lier  dear  son  Henry,  her 
l)cst  beloved,  was  oI)stinatc  and  stiif-neckcd, 
and  would  take  no  advice.  "  He  is  even  worse 
than  his  father,"  slic  said,  in  her  short-lived  an- 
ger, to  her  own  father,  to  wliom  alone  at  this 
time  slio  could  unburden  her  griefs,  seeking 
consolation  and  encouragement. 

It  was  iicr  habit  to  go  over  to  the  deanery  at 
any  rate  twice  a  week  at  tliis  time,  and  on  the 
occasion  of  one  of  tlic  visits  so  made  she  e.\- 
presscd  very  strongly  lier  distress  at  the  family 
quarrel  wliieli  haj  come  among  tiicm.  The  old 
man  took  his  grandson's  part  through  and 
through.  "I  do  not  at  all  sec  why  he  sliould 
not  marry  the  young  lady  if  he  likes  lier.  As 
for  money,  there  ouglit  to  be  enough  without 
his  liaving  to  look  for  a  wife  with  a  fortune." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  money,  papa." 

"And  as  to  rank,"  continued  Mr.  Harding, 
"Henry  will  not  at  any  rate  be  going  lower 
than  his  father  did  when  he  married  you— not 
so  low  indeed,  for  at  that  time  I  was  only  a 
minor  canon,  and  Mr.  Crawley  is  in  possession 
of  a  benefice." 

"  rai)a,  all  that  is  nonsense.     It  is  indeed." 

"  Very  likely,  my  dear." 

"It  is  not  because  Mr.  Crawley  is  only  per- 
petual curate  of  Ilogglestock  that  the  archdea- 
con objects  to  the  marriage.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  that  at  all.  At  the  present  moment  he 
is  in  disgi'ace." 

"Under  a  cloud,  my  dear.  Let  us  pray  that 
it  may  be  only  a  passing  cloud." 

"All  the  world  thinks  that  h3  was  guilty. 
And  then  he  is  such  a  man — so  singular,  so  un- 
like any  body  else !  You  know,  papa,  that  I 
don't  tliink  very  much  of  money,  merely  as 
money." 

"I  hope  not,  my  dear.  Money  is  worth 
thinking  of,  but  it  is  not  worth  very  much 
thought." 

"But  it  does  give  advantages,  and  the  ab-' 
senec  of  such  advantages  must  be  very  muck 
felt  in  tlie  education  of  a  girl.  You  would 
hardly  wish  Henry  to  marry  a  young  woman 
who,  from  want  of  money,  had  not  been  brought 
up  among  ladies.  It  is  not  Miss  Crawley's  fault, 
but  such  has  been  her  lot.  We  can  not  ignore 
these  deficiencies,  papa." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  dear." 

"You  .would  not,  for  instance,  wish  that 
Henry  should  marry  a  kitchen-maid." 

"  But  is  Miss  Crawley  a  kitchen-maid,  Su- 
san ?" 

"  I  don't  quite  say  that." 

"  I  am  told  that  she  has  been  educated  in- 
finitely better  than  most  of  tiie  young  ladies  in 
the  neiglihorhood,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"I  believe  that  her  father  has  taught  her 
Greek ;  and  I  suppose  she  has  learned  some- 
thing of  French  at  that  school  at  Silverbridge." 

"  Tlien  the  kitchen-maid  theory  is  sufficiently 


disposed  of,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  with  mild  tri- 
umj)!). 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  papa.  But  the 
fact  is,  that  it  is  impossible  to  deal  with  men. 
They  will  never  be  reasonable.  A  marriage 
such  as  this  would  be  injurious  to  Henry  ;  but 
it  will  not  be  ruinous ;  and  as  to  disinheriting 
liim  for  it,  that  would  be  downright  wicked." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"But  tiie  archdeacon  will  look  at  it  as  tliough 
it  would  destroy  Henry  and  Edith  altogether, 
while  you  speak  of  it  as  though  it  were  the  best 
thing  in  the  world." 

"If  the  young  people  love  each  other,  I  think 
it  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world,"  said 
Mr.  Harding. 

"But,  papa,  you  can  not  but  think  that  his 
father's  wish  should  go  for  sometliing,"  said  INIrs. 
Grantly,  who,  desirous  as  she  was  on  the  one 
side  to  sujjport  her  son,  could  not  bear  tliat  lier 
husband  should,  on  the  otlier  side,  be  declared' 
to  be  altogether  in  the  wrong. 

"I  do  not  know,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing; "but  I  do  think  that  if  the  two  young 
people  are  fond  of  each  other,  and  if  there  is 
any  thing  for  them  to  live  upon,  it  can  not  bo 
right  to  keep  them  apart.  You  know,  my  dear, 
she  is  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman."  Mrs. 
Grantly  upon  this  left  her  father  almost  brusque- 
ly, witliout  speaking  another  word  on  the  sub- 
ject ;  for,  though  she  was  opposed  to  tiic  ve- 
hement anger  of  her  husband,  she  could  not 
endure  the  proposition  now  made  by  her  fatlier. 

Mr.  Harding  was  at  this  time  living  all  alone 
in  the  deanery.  For  some  few  years  the  dean- 
cry  had  been  his  home,  and  as  his  youngest 
daugiiter  was  the  dean's  wife,  there  could  be  no 
more  comfortable  resting-place  for  the  evening 
of  his  life.  During  the  last  month  or  two  the 
days  had  gone  tediously  with  him  ;  for  he  hftd 
had  the  large  house  all  to  himself,  and  he  was  a 
man  who  did  not  love  solitude.  It  is  hard  to 
conceive  that  the  old,  wliosc  thoughts  have, been 
all  thought  out,  should  ever  love  to  live  alone. 
'Solitude  is  surely  for  the  young,  who  have  time  1 
before  them  for  tlie  execution  of  schemes,  and  I 
who  can,  therefore,  take  delight  in  tliinkiug.  In/, 
these  days  the  poor  old  man  would  wander  about 
the  rooms,  shambling  from  one  chamber  to  an- 
other, and  would  feel  ashamed  when  the  servants 
met  him  ever  on  the  move.  He  would  make 
little  apologies  for  his  uneasiness,  which  they 
would  accept  graciously,  understanding  after  a 
fasliion  why  it  was  that  he  was  uneasy.  "He 
ain't  got  nothing  to  do,"  said  the  house-maid  to 
the  cook,  "and  as  for  reading,  they  say  that 
some  of  the  young  ones  can  read  all  day  some- 
times, and  all  night  too  ;  but,  bless  you  !  wlien 
you're  nigh  eighty,  reading  don't  go  for  much." 
The  house-maid  was  rigiit  as  to  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's reading.  He  was  not  one  who  had  read 
so  much  in  his  earlier  days  as  to  enable  him  to 
make  reading  go  far  with  him  now  that  he  was 
near  eighty.  So  he  wandered  about  the  room, 
and  sat  here  for  a  few  minutes,  and  tiiere  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  though  he  did  not  sleep  much, 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


217 


lie  made  the  hours  of  the  night  as  many  as  was 
jKissiblc.  Every  morning  he  shambled  across 
iVoin  the  deanery  to  tlie  catliedral,  and  attended 
the  morning  service,  sitting  in  the -stall  which  he 
luul  occupied  for  fifty  years.  Tlie  distance  was 
vcrv  short,  not  exceeding,  indeed,  a  hundred 
^  ards  from  a  side-door  in  the  deanery  to  another 
side-door  into  the  cathedral ;  but  sliort  as  it 
\vas  there  had  come  to  be  a  question  whether  lie 
should  be  allowed  to  go  alone.  It  had  been 
tVarcd  that  he  might  fall  on  his  passage  and 
juut  himself;  for  there  was  a  step  here,  and  a 
step  there,  and  the  liglit  was  not  very  good  in 
the  purlieus  of  the  old  cathedi-al.  A  word  or 
t^\o  had  been  said  once,  and  the  offer  of  an  arm 
to  help  him  had  been  made  ;  but  he  had  reject- 
ed the  proffered  assistance — softly,  indeed,  but 
still  firmly — and  every  day  he  tottered  oflF  by 
himself,  hardly  lifting  his  feet  as  he  went,  and 
aiding  himself  on  his  journey  by  a  hand  upon 
the  wall  when  he  tliought  that  nobody  was  look- 
ing at  him.  But  many  did  see  him,  and  they 
who  knew  him — ladies  generally  of  the  city — 
would  offer  him  a  hand.  Nobody  was  milder, 
in  his  dislikings  than  Mr.  Harding;  but  there 
were  ladies  in  Barchester  upon  whose  arm  he 
would  always  decline  to  lean,  bowing  coui-tcous- 
ly  as  he  did  so,  and  saying  a  word  or  two  of  con- 
strained civility.  There  were  others  whom  he 
would  allow  to  accompany  him  home  to  the  door 
of  the  deaner}%  with  whom  he  delighted  to  lin- 
ger and  chat  if  the  morning  was  warm,  and  to 
whom  he  would  tell  little  stories  of  his  own  do- 
ings in  the  cathedral  services  in  the  old  days 
when  Bisliop  Grantly  had  ruled  in  the  diocese. 
Never  a  word  did  he  say  against  Bishop  Proudie 
or  against  Bishop  Broudie's  wife  ;  but  the  many 
words  which  he  did  say  in  praise  of  Bishop 
Grantly — who,  by  his  showing,  was  surely  one 
of  the   best   of  churchmen   who  ever   walked 

:  through  this  vale  of  sorrow — were  as  eloquent 
in  dispraise  of  the  existing  prelate  as  could  have 
been  any  more  clearly-jiointed  phrases.  This 
daily  visit  to  the  cathedral,  where  he  would  say 

I  his  prayers  as  he  had  said  tliem  for  so  many 

'  years,  and  listen  to  the  organ,  of  which  he  knew 
all  the  power  and  every  blemish  as  though  he 
himself  had  made  the  stops  and  fixed  the  pipes, 
was  the  chief  occupation  of  his  life.  It  was  a 
pity  that  it  could  not  have  been  made  to  cover 
a  larger  portion  of  the  day. 

It  was  sometimes  sad  enough  to  watch  him 
as  he  sat  alone.  He  would  have  a  book  near 
him,  and  for  a  while  would  keep  it  in  his  hands. 

I  It  would  generally  be  some  volume  of  good  old 
standard  theology  with  which  he  had  been,  or 
supposed  himself  to  have  been,  conversant  from 
his  youtli.  But  the  book  would  soon  be  laid 
aside,  and  gradually  he  would  move  himself 
away  from  it,  and  he  would  stand  about  in  the 
room,  looking  now  out  of  a  window  from  which 
he  would  fancy  that  he  could  not  be  seen,  or 
gazing  up  at  some  print  wliich  he  had  known  for 
years  :  and  then  he  would  sit  down  for  a  while 
in  one  chair,  and  for  a  while  in  another,  while 
his  mind  was  wandering  back  into  old  davs, 
O 


thinking  of  old  troubles  and  remembering  his 
old  joys.  And  he  had  a  habit,  when  he  was 
sure  that  he  was  not  watched,  of  crcciiing  up  to 
a  great  black  wooden  case,  which  always  stood 
in  one  corner  of  the  sitting-room  which  he  occu- 
pied in  the  deanery.  Mr.  Harding,  when  ho 
was  younger,  had  been  a  ]ierformer  on  the  vio- 
loncello, and  in  this  case  there  was  still  the  in- 
strument from  which  he  had  been  wont  to  ex- 
tract the  sounds  which  he  had  so  dearly  loved. 
Now  in  these  latter  days  ho  never  made  any  at- 
tempt to  play.  Soon  after  he  had  come  to  the 
deanery  there  had  fallen  upon  him  an  illness, 
and  after  that  he  had  never  again  asked  for  his 
bow.  They  who  were  around  him- — his  daugh- 
ter chiefly  and  her  husband — had  given  the 
matter  much  thought,  arguing  with  themselves 
whether  or  no  it  would  be  better  to  invite  him 
to  resume  the  task  he  had  so  loved ;  for  of  all 
the  works  of  his  life  this  playing  on  the  violon- 
cello had  been  the  sweetest  to  him  ;  but  even 
before  that  illness  his  hand  had  greatly  failed 
him,  and  the  dean  and  Mrs.  Arabin  had  agreed 
that  it  would  be  better  to  let  the  matter  pass 
without  a  word.  He  had  never  asked  to  be  al- 
lowed to  play.  He  had  expressed  no  regrets. 
When  he  himself  would  propose  that  his  daugh- 
ter should  "give  them  a  little  music" — and  he 
would  make  such  a  proposition  on  every  even- 
ing that  was  suitable — he  would  never  say  a 
word  of  those  former  performances  at  which  he 
himself  had  taken  a  part.  But  it  had  become 
known  to  Mrs.  Arabin,  through  the  servants, 
that  he  had  once  dragged  tlie  instrument  forth 
from  its  case  when  he  had  thought  the  house  to 
be  nearly  deserted ;  and  a  wail  of  sounds  had 
been  heard,  very  low,  very  short-lived,  recur- 
ring now  and  again  at  fitful  intervals.  He  had 
at  those  times  attempted  to  play  as  though  with 
a  muffled  bow — so  that  none  should  know  of 
his  vanity  and  folly.  Then  there  had  been  fur- 
ther consultations  at  the  deanery,  and  it  had 
been  again  agreed  that  it  would  be  best  to  say 
nothing  to  him  of  his  music. 

In  these  latter  days  of  which  I  am  now  speah- 
ing  he  would  never  draw  the  instrument  out  of 
its  case.  Indeed  he  Avas  aware  that  it  was  too 
heavy  for  liim  to  handle  without  assistance. 
But  he  would  open  the  prison  door,  and  gaze 
upon  the  thing  that  he  loved,  and  he  would  pass 
his  fingers  among  the  broad  strings,  and  ever 
and  anon  he  v.ould  produce  from  one  of  them  a 
low,  melancholy,  almost  uncartlily  sound.  And 
then  he  would  pause,  never  daring  to  ])roduce 
two  such  notes  in  succession — one  close  upon 
the  other.  And  these  last  sad  moans  of  the  old 
fiddle  were  now  known  through  the  household. 
They  were  the  ghosts  of  the  melody  of  days  long 
past.  He  imagined  that  his  visits  to  the  box 
were  unsuspected — that  none  knew  of  the  folly 
of  his  old  fingers  which  could  not  keep  them- 
selves from  touching  the  wires ;  but  the  voice 
of  the  violoncello  had  been  recognized  by  the 
servants  and  by  his  dauglitcr,  and  when  that 
low  wail  was  heard  tlirougli  the  house— like 
the  last  dying  note  of  a  dirge — they  would  all 


218 


THE  LAST  CHliONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


know  that  ^^^.  Ilniilin,:^  was  visiting  his  ancient 
fricnil. 

When  t!ic  dean  and  Mrs.  Arabin  liad  first 
talked  of  ^oing  abroad  for  a  long  visit  it  had 
bjen  unth'rstood  that  Mr.  Harding  shonld  pass 
the  ])criod  of  their  absence  witii  his  otlier  daiigh- 
t  'r  at  rinnistead  ;  but  when  tiic  time  came  lie 
b^^rgod  of  >[rs.  Arabin  to  be  allowed  to  remain 
in  his  t)l  1  rooms.  "  Of  course  I  shall  go  back- 
war. I  and  forward,"  he  had  said.  "There  is 
nothing  I  like  so  much  as  a  change  now  and 
then."  Tlic  result  had  been  that  he  had  gone 
once  to  Phunstead  during  tiie  dean's  absence. 
When  he  had  thus  remonstrated,  bogging  to  be 
rdldwed  to  remain  in  ]>.irchestor,  JMrs.  Arabin 
hid  declared  her  intention  of  giving  up  her  tour. 
In  telling  her  father  of  t!iis  she  had  not  said 
that  her  altered  purpose  had  arisen  from  her 
disinclination  to  leave  him  alone — but  he  had 
perceived  that  it  was  so,  and  had  then  consented 
to  bo  taken  over  to  I'lumstcad.  There  was 
nothing,  he  said,  which  ho  would  like  so  much 
as  going  over  to  I'lumstead  for  four  or  five 
mont'.is.  It  had  ended  in  his  having  his  own 
way  altogether.  The  Arabins  had  gone  upon 
tlieir  tour,  an  1  he  was  left  in  ])ossession  of  the 
deanery.  "  I  should  not  like  to  die  out  of  Bar- 
chester,"  he  said  to  himself  in  excuse  to  himself 
for  his  disinclination  to  sojourn  long  under  the 
arclideacon's  roof.  But,  in  truth,  the  archdea- 
con, who  loved  iiim  well,  and  wlio,  after  a  fash- 
ion, had  always  been  good  to  him — v/ho  had  al- 
wa\-s  spoken  of  the  connection  which  had  bound 
the  two  families  together  as  tlic  great  blessing 
of  his  life — was  too  rough  in  his  greetings  for 
the  old  man.  Mr.  Harding  had  ever  mixed 
SDmjthing  of  fear  with  his  warm  aifection  for 
his  elder  son-in-law,  and  now  in  these  closing 
hours  of  his  life  he  could  not  avoid  a  certain 
amount  of  shrinking  from  that  loud  voice— a 
certain  inaptitude  to  be  quite  at  ease  in  that 
commanding  j)rescnc3.  The  dean,  his  second 
son-in-law,  had  been  a  modern  friend  in  com- 
])arison  with  the  archdeacon  ;  but  the  dean  was 
more  gentle  with  him ;  and  then  the  dean's 
wife  had  ever  been  the  dearest  to  him  of  human 
beings.  It  may  be  a  doubt  whether  one  of  the 
dean's' children  was  not  now  almost  more  dear, 
and  whether  in  these  days  he  did  not  have  more 
free  communication  with  that  little  girl  than 
with  any  other  human  being.  Her  name  was 
Susan,  but  he  had  always  called  her  Posy,  hav- 
ing himself  invented  for  her  that  sobriquet. 
When  it  had  been  i)roposed  to  him  to  pass  the  i 
winter  and  spring  at  Plumstcad  the  suggestion 
had  been  m^de  alluring  by  a  promise  that  Posy 
also  should  be  taken  to  Mrs.  Grantly's  house. 
But  he,  as  we  have  seen,  had  remained  at  the 
deanery,  and  Posy  had  remained  with  him. 

Posy  was  now  five  years  old,  and  could  talk 
well,  and  had  her  own  ideas  of  things.  Posy's 
eyes — hers,  and  no  others  l)esides  her  own — were 
allowed  to  see  tlie  inhabitant  of  tlie  big  black 
case;  and  now  that  the  deanery  was  so  nearly 
deserted  Posy's  fingers  had  touched  the  strings, 
and  had  produced  an  infantine  moan.     "  Grand- 


pa, let  me  do  it  again."  Twang!  It  was  not, 
however,  in  truth,  a  twang,  but  a  sound  as  of  a 
])rolonged,  dull,  almost  deadly,  hnm-m-m-m-m  I 
On  this  occasion  the  moan  was  not  entirely  in-' 
faiitine — Posy's  fingers  having  been  something 
too  strong — and  the  case  was  closed  and  locked, 
and  grand]mi)a  shook  his  head. 

"But  I\Irs.  Baxter  won't  be  angry, "  said  Posy. 
Mrs.  Baxter  was  the  housekeeper  in  the  dean- 
ery, and  had  JMr.  Harding  under  her  csjiecial 
charge. 

"No,  my  darling;  Mrs.  Baxter  will  not  be 
angry,  but  we  mustn't  disturb  the  house." 

"No,"  said  Posy,  with  much  of  important 
awe  in  her  tone;  "  wc  mustn't  disturb  the 
house;  must  we,  grandpapa?"  And  so  slie 
gave  in  her  adhesion  to  the  closing  of  the  case. 
But  Posy  could  ]jlay  cats'-cradle,  and  as  cats'-cra- 
dle  did  not  disturb  tlie  house  at  all,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  cals'-cradle  played  in  these  days. 
Posy's  fingers  were  so  soft  and  jiretty,  so  small 
and  deft,  that  the  dear  old  man  delighted  in 
taking  the  strings  from  them,  and  in  having 
Vliem  taken  from  his  own  by  those  tender  little 
digits. 

On  the  afternoon  after  tlie  conversation  re- 
specting Grace  Crawley  which  is  recorded  in 
the  early  ]>art  of  this  cliaptcr,  a  messenger  from 
Barchestcr  v.ent  over  to  Plumstcad,  and  a  part 
of  his  mission  consisted  of  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Baxter  to  ISIrs.  Grantly,  beginning,  "Honored 
Madam,"  and  informing  Mrs.  Grantly,  among 
other  tilings,  that  her  "respected  papa,"  as  Mrs. 
Baxter  called  him,  was  not  quite  so  well  as  usu- 
al ;  not  that  Sirs.  Baxter  thought  there  was  much 
the  matter.  Mr.  Harding  had  been  to  the  ca- 
Jflicdral  service,  as  was  usual  witii  him,  but  had 
'come  home  leaning  on  a  lady's  arm,  who  had 
thought  it  well  to  stay  with  him  at  the  door  till 
it  had  been  opened  for  him.  After  that  "  Miss 
Posy"  had  found  him  asleep,  and  had  been  un- 
able— or  if  not  unable,  unwilling,  to  wake  him. 
"Miss  Posy"  had  come  down  to  Mrs.  Baxter 
somewhat  in  a  fright,  and  hence  this  letter  had 
been  written.  JMrs.  Baxter  thought  that  there 
was  nothiug  "to  fright"  IMrs.  Grantly,  and  she 
wasn't  sure  that  she  should  have  written  at  all 
only  that  Dick  was  bound  to  go  over  to  Plum- 
stead  with  the  wool ;  but  as  Uick  was  going, 
Mrs.  Baxter  thought  it  ]iroper  to  send  her  duty, 
and  to  say  that  to  her  bumble  way  of  thinking 
]ierhap3  it  might  be  best  that  Mr.  Harding 
shouldn't  go  alone  to  the  cathedral  every  morn- 
ing. "If  the  dear  reverend  gentleman  was  to 
get  a  tumble,  ma'am,"  said  the  letter,  "it  would 
be  awkward."  Tlien  Mrs.  Grantly  remembered 
that  she  had  left  her  father  almost  without  a 
greeting  on  the  previous  day,  and  she  resolved 
that  she  would  go  over  very  early  on  the  follow- 
ing morning — so  early  that  she  would  be  at  the 
deanery  before  her  fatiier  should  have  gone  to 
the  cathedral. 

"He  ought  to  have  come  over  here,  and  not 
staid  there  by  himself,"  said  tlie  archdeacon, 
when  his  wife  told  him  of  her  intention. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  think  of  that  now,  my  dear ; 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


219 


POSY   AND   UEU   GUANDl'Al'A. 


find  one  can  understand,  I  tliink,  that  he  should 
not  like  leaving  the  catliedral  as  long  as  he  can 
attend  it.  The  truth  is  he  does  not  like  being 
out  of  Barchcster." 

"  lie  would  be  much  better  here,"  said  the 
archdeacon.  "  Of  course  you  can  have  the  car- 
riage and  go  over.  We  can  breakfast  at  eight ; 
and  if  you  can  bring  him  back  with  you,  do. 
I  should  tell  him  that  lie  ought  to  come."  Mrs. 
Grantly  made  no  answer  to  this,  knowing  very 
well  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  go  be- 


yond the  gentlest  persuasion  with  her  father, 
and  on  the  next  morning  she  was  at  the  deanery 
by  ten  o'clock.  Half  past  ten  was  the  liour  at 
wliich  the  service  began.  JVIrs.  Baxter  contrived 
to  meet  her  before  she  saw  her  father,  and  begged 
her  not  to  let  it  be  known  that  any  special  ti- 
dings of  Mr.  Harding's  failing  strength  had  been 
sent  from  the  deanery  to  riumstcad.  "And 
how  is  my  father?"  asked  Mrs.  Grantly.  "Well, 
then,  ma'am,"  said  Baxter,  "in  one  sense  lie's 
finely.     He  took  a  morsel  of  early  lamb  to  his 


220 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


dinner  ycstcnlny,  and  relished  it  ever  so  well — 
only  he  gave  Miss  I'osy  the  best  part  of  it.  And 
tlien  he  sat  with  Miss  Posy  quite  haj)py  for  an 
hour  or  so.  And  then  he  slept  in  his  chair ; 
and  you  kno-,  ma'am,  we  never  wakes  him. 
And  after  that  old  Skulpit  toddled  up  from  tlie 
liospital" — this  was  Hiram's  hospital,  of  whieh 
establishment,  in  the  city  of  IJarchestcr,  Mr. 
Harding  had  once  been  the  warden  and  kind 
master,  as  has  been  told  in  former  chronicles  of 
the  city — "and  your  ])apa  has  said,  ma'am,  you 
know,  that  he  is  always  to  sec  any  of  the  old 
men  when  tliey  come  up.  And  Skulpit  is  sly, 
and  no  better  than  lie  sliould  be,  and  got  money 
from  your  father,  ma'am,  I  knt)w.  And  then 
he  had  just  a  drop  of  tea,  and  after  that  I  took 
him  his  glass  of  jiort-winc  with  my  own  hands. 
And  it  touched  me,  ma'am,  so  it  did,  when  he 
said,  '  Oh,  Mrs.  Baxter,  how  good  you  are  !  you 
know  well  what  it  is  I  like.'  And  then  he  went 
to  bed.  I  listened  hard — not  from  idle  cur'osi- 
ty,  ma'am,  as  you,  who  know  mo,  will  believe, 
but  just  because  it's  becoming  to  know  what  he's 
about,  as  there  might  be  an  accident,  you  know, 
ma'am."  "You  are  very  good,  ]Mrs.  Baxter, 
very  good."  "Thank,  ye,  ma'am,  for  saying 
so.  And  so  I  listened  Iiard ;  but  he  didn't  go 
to  his  music,  poor  gentleman ;  and  I  think  he 
had  a  quiet  night.  He  doesn't  sleep  much  at 
nights,  poor  gentleman,  but  he's  very  quiet ; 
leastwise  he  was  last  night."  Tliis  was  the 
bulletin  which  Mrs.  Baxter  gave  to  ]\Irs.  Grant- 
ly  on  that  morning  before  Mrs.  Grantly  saw  her 
father. 

She  found  him  preparing  himself  for  his  visit 
to  the  cathedral.  Some  year  or  two — but  no 
more — before  the  date  of  which  wc  are  speaking, 
ha  had  still  taken  some  small  part  in  the  service ; 
and  wliile  lie  had  done  so  he  had  of  course  worn 
his  surplice.  Living  so  close  to  the  cathedral — 
so  close  tiiat  he  could  almost  walk  out  of  the 
house  into  tlic  transept — he  had  kept  his  surplice 
in  his  own  I'oom,  and  had  gone  down  in  his 
vestment.  It  had  been  a  bitter  day  to  him  when 
he  had  first  found  himself  constrained  to  aban- 
don tlie  white  garment  which  lie  loved.  He  had 
encountered  some  failure  in  the  performance  of 
the  slight  clerical  task  allotted  to  him,  and  the 
dean  had  tenJerl}'  advised  him  to  desist.  He 
did  not  utter  one  word  of  remonstrance.  "It 
will  perhaps  be  better,  "the  dean  had  said.  "Yes 
— it  will  be  better,"  Mr.  Harding  had  replied. 
"Few  have  had  accorded  to  them  the  higli  priv- 
ilege of  serving  their  Master  in  His  house  for  so 
many  years— though  few  more  humbly,  or  with 
lower  gifts."  But  on  tlie  following  morning, 
and  for  nearly  a  week  afterward,  lie  had  been 
unable  to  face  the  minor  canon  and  the  vergers, 
and  the  old  women  who  knew  him  so  well,  in 
his  ordinary  black  garments.  At  last  he  went 
down  with  the  dean,  and  occupied  a  stall  close 
to  tlie  dean's  seat — far  away  from  that  in  which 
he  had  sat  for  so  many  years — and  in  this  scat 
he  had  said  his  prayers  ever  since  that  day. 
And  now  his  surplices  were  washed  and  Ironed 
and  folded  and  put  away ;  but  there  were  mo- 


ments in  which  he  would  stealthily  visit  them,  as 
he  also  stealthily  visited  his  friend  in  the  black 
wooden  case.  This  was  very  melancholy,  and 
the  sadness  of  it  was  felt  by  all  those  who  lived 
with  him  ;  but  he  never  alluded  himself  to  any 
of  those  bereavements  which  age  brought  upon 
him.  Whatever  might  be  his  regrets,  he  kept 
them  ever  within  his  own  breast. 

Posy  was  with  him  when  Mrs.  Grantly  went 
up  into  his  room,  holding  for  him  his  hat  and 
stick  while  he  was  engaged  in  brushing  a  sus- 
])icion  of  dust  from  his  black  gaiters.  "  Grand- 
jiapa,  here  is  aunt  Susan,"  said  Posy.  The  old 
man  looked  up  with  something — with  some 
slightest  sign  of  that  habitual  fear  which  was  al- 
ways aroused  witliin  his  bosom  by  visitations 
from  Plnmstead.  Had  I^Irs.  Arabin  thoroughly 
understood  tlie  difference  in  her  father's  feeling 
toward  herself  and  toward  her  sister,  I  think  she 
would  hardly  have  gone  forth  upon  any  tour 
while  he  remained  with  her  in  the  deanery.  It 
is  very  hard  sometimes  to  know  how  intensely 
we  are  loved,  and  of  what  value  our  presence  ia 
to  those  who  love  us !  Mrs.  Grantly  saw  the  look 
— did  not  analyze  it,  did  not  quite  understand  it 
— but  fell,  as  she  had  so  often  felt  before,  that  it 
was  not  altogether  laden  with  welcome.  But 
all  this  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  duty  on 
which  she  had  come ;  nor  did  it  in  the  slight- 
est degree  militate  against  her  own  affection. 
"Papa,"  she  said,  kissing  him,  "you  are  sur- 
prised to  see  me  so  early  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  yes;  but  very  glad  all  the 
same.  I  hope  every  body  is  well  at  Plum- 
stead  ?" 

"  Every  body,  thank  you,  pajva." 

"  That  is  well.  Posy  and  I  are  getting  ready 
for  church.   .  Are  we  not.  Posy?" 

"Grandpapa  is  getting  ready.  Mrs.  Baxter 
won't  let  me  go." 

"No,  my  dear,  no;  not  yet,  Posy.  When 
Posy  is  a  great  girl  she  can  go  to  cathedral 
every  day.  Only  then,  perhaps.  Posy  won't 
want  to  go." 

"I  thought  that,  perhaps,  papa,  you  would 
sit  with  me  a  little  while  this  morning,  instead 
of  going  to  morning  pra3-ers." 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly.  Only  I  do 
not  like  not  going ;  for  who  can  say  how  often 
I  may  be  able  to  go  again?  Tlicre  is  so  little 
left,  Susan — so  very  little  left." 

After  that  she  had  not  the  heart  to  ask  him 
to  stay,  and  therefore  she  went  with  him.  As 
they  passed  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  doors 
she  was  astonished  to  find  how  weak  were  his 
footsteps  —  how  powerless  he  was  against  the 
slightest  misadventure.  On  this  very  day  he 
would  have  tripped  at  the  upward  stej>  at  the 
cathedral  door  had  she  not  been  with  him. 
"Oh,  papa,"  she  said,  "indeed,  indeed,  you 
should  not  come  here  alone."  Then  he  apolo- 
gized for  his  little  stumble  with  many  words  and 
much  shame,  assuring  her  that  any  body  might 
trip  on  an  occasion.  It  was  purely  an  accident ; 
and  though  it  was  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  had 
her  arm,  he  was  sure  that  he  should  have  rccov- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


221 


ered  himself  even  liad  he  been  alone.  He  al- 
ways, he  said,  kept  quite  close  to  the  wall,  so  that 
there  might  be  no  mistake — no  possibility  of  an 
accident.  All  this  he  said  volubly,  but  with 
confused  words,  in  the  covered  stone  passage 
leading  into  the  transept.  And  as  he  thus 
spoke  Mrs.  Grantly  made  up  her  mind  that  her 
^father  should  never  again  go  to  tlie  cathedral 
/alone.  He  never  did  go  again  to  tlic  cathedral 
— alone. 

When  they  returned  to  tlie  deanery  Mr.  Hard- 
ing was  fluttered,  weary,  and  unwell.  "When 
his  daughter  left  him  for  a  few  minutes  he  told 
Mrs.  Baxter,  in  confidence,  tlie  story  of  his  ac- 
cident, and  his  great  grief  that  his  daughter 
should  have  seen  it.  "Laws  amercy,  Sir,  it 
was  a  blessing  she  was  with  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Baxter;  "it was,  indeed,  Mr.  Harding."  Then 
Mr.  Harding  had  been  angry,  and  spoke  almost 
crossly  to  Mrs.  Baxter ;  but  before  she  left  the 
room  he  found  an  opportunity  of  begging  her 
pardon — not  in  a  set  speech  to  tliat  eiicct,  but 
by  a  little  word  of  gentle  kindness  which  she 
had  understood  perfectly.  "Pa])a,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly  to  him  as  soon  as  she  had  succeeded  in 
getting  botli  Posy  and  Mrs.  Baxter  out  of  the 
room — against  the  doing  of  which  ]\Ir.  Hard- 
ing had  manojuvred  with  all  his  little  impotent 
skill — "jiapa,  you  must  promise  me  that  you 
will  not  go  to  the  cathedral  again  alone,  till 
Eleanor  comes  home."  When  he  heard  the 
sentence  he  looked  at  her  with  blank  misery  in 
liis  eyes.  He  made  no  attempt  at  remonstrance. 
He  begged  for  no  respite.  The  word  had  gone 
forth,  and  he  knew  that  it  must  be-  obeyed. 
Though  he  would  have  hidden  the  signs  of  his 
weakness  had  he  been  able,  he  would  not  con- 
descend to  plead  that  he  was  strong.  "If  you 
think  it  wrong,  my  dear,  I  will  not  go  alone," 
he  said.  "  Papa,  I  do  ;  indeed  I  do.  Dear 
papa,  I  would  not  hurt  you  by  saying  it  if  I  did 
not  know  that  I  am  right."  He  was  sitting 
with  his  hand  upon  the  table,  and,  as  she  spoke 
to  him,  she  put  her  hand  upon  his,  caressing  it. 
"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  are  always  right." 

She  then  left  him  again  for  a  while,  having 
some  business  out  in  the  city,  and  he  was  alone 
in  his  room  for  an  hour.  What  was  there  left 
to  him  now  in  the  world  ?  Old  as  he  was,  and 
in  some  things  almost  childish,  nevertheless  he 
thought  of  this  keenly,  and  some  half-realized 
remembrance  of  "the  lean  and  slippered  panta- 
loon" flitted  across  his  mind,  causing  him  a  jiang. 
What  was  there  left  to  him  now  in  the  world  ? 
Posy  and  cat's-cradle !  Then  in  the  midst  of 
his  regrets,  as  he  sat  with  his  back  bent  in.  his 
old  easy-chair,  with  one  arm  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  chair  and  the  other  hanging  loose  by  his 
side,  on  a  sudden  there  came  across  his  face  a 
smile  as  sweet  as  ever  brightened  tlie  face  of 
man  or  woman.  He  had  been  able  to  tell  him- 
self that  he  had  no  ground  for  complaint — great 
ground  rather  for  rejoicing  and  gratitude.  Had 
not  the  world  and  all  in  it  been  good  to  him  ? 
liad  he  not  children  who  loved  him,  who  had 
done  him  honor,  who  had  been  to  him  alwavs  a 


crown  of  glory,  never  a  mark  for  reproach  ?  had 
not  his  lines  fallen  to  him  in  very  pleasant 
places  ?  was  it  not  his  happy  fate  to  go  and 
leave  it  all  amidst  the  good  words  and  kind  lov- 
ing cares  of  devoted  friends  ?  Whose  latter  days 
had  ever  been  more  blessed  than  his  ?  And  for 
the  future—?  It  was  as  he  thought  of  this  that 
that  smile  came  across  his  face — as  though  it 
were  already  the  foce  of  an  angel.  And  then 
he  muttered  to  himself  a  word  or  two.  "Lord, 
now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace. 
Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in 
peace." 

When  Mrs.  Grantly  returned  she  found  him 
in  jocund  spirits.  And  yet  she  perceived  that 
he  was  so  weak  that  when  he  left  his  chair  he 
could  barely  get  across  the  room  without  assist- 
ance. Mrs.  Baxter,  indeed,  had  not  sent  to  her 
too  soon,  and  it  was  well  that  the  prohibition  had 
come  in  time  to  prevent  some  terrible  accident. 
"Papa,"  she  said,  "I  think  you  had  better  go 
with  me  to  Plumstead.  The  carriage  is  here, 
and  I  can  take  you  home  so  comfortably."  But 
he  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  taken  on  this 
occasion  to  Plumstead.  He  smiled  and  thanked 
her,  and  put  his  hand  into  hers,  and  repeated  his 
promise  that  he  would  not  leave  the  house  on 
any  occasion  without  assistance,  and  declared 
himself  specially  thankful  to  her  for  coming  to 
him  on  that  special  morning ;  but  he  would  not 
be  taken  to  Plumstead.  "When  the  summer 
comes,"  he  said,  "then,  if  you  Mill  have  me 
for  a  few  days !" 

He  meant  no  deceit,  and  yet  he  had  told 
himself  within  the  last  hour  that  he  should  nev- 
er see  another  summer.  lie  could  not  tell  even 
his  daughter  that  after  such  a  life  as  this,  after 
more  than  fifty  years  spent  in  the  ministrations 
of  his  darling  cathedral,  it  specially  behooved 
him  to  die — as  he  had  lived — at  Barchester. 
He  could  not  say  this  to  his  eldest  daughter; 
but  had  his  Eleanor  been  at  home  he  could  have 
said  it  to  her.  He  thought  he  might  yet  live  to 
see  his  Eleanor  once  again.  If  this  could  be 
given  to  him  he  would  ask  for  nothing  more. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter wrote  another  letter,  in  which  she  told  Mrs. 
Grantly  that  her  father  had  declared,  at  his 
usual  huur  of  rising  that  morning,  that  as  he 
was  not  going  to  the  cathedral  he  would,  he 
thought,  lie  in  bed  a  little  longer.  And  then 
he  had  lain  in  bed  the  whole  day.  "And, 
perhaps,  honored  madam,  looking  at  all  things, 
it's  best  as  he  should,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 


CHAPTER  L. 

LADY    LUFTOX'S    PROrOSITIOX. 

It  was  now  known  throughout  Barchester 
that  a  commission  was  to  be  held  by  the  bish- 
op's orders,  at  Avhicli  inquiry  would  be  made — 
that  is,  ecclesiastical  inquiry — as  to  the  guilt 
imputed  to  Mr.  Crawley  in  the  matter  of  Mr. 
Soames's   check.      Sundry    rumors    had    gone 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


abroad  ns  to  quarrels  which  had  taken  phicc 
on  the  suhjcct  among  certain  clergymen  high 
in  office ;  but  tlicsc  were  simply  rumors,  and 
nothing  was  in  truth  known.  There  was  no 
more  discreet  clergyman  in  all  the  diocese  than 
Dr.  Tempest,  and  not  a  word  had  cscajicd  from 
him  as  to  the  stormy  nature  of  that  meeting  in 
the  bishop's  palace,  at  which  he  had  attended 
with  the  bisliop — and  at  whicli  Mrs.  Proudic 
had  attended  also.  "When  it  is  said  that  the 
fact  of  tliis  coming  commission  was  known  to 
nil  Barsctshire,  allusion  is  of  course  made  to 
that  portion  of  the  inhabitants  of  Barsctshire 
to  which  clerical  matters  were  dear — and  as 
such  matters  were  specially  dear  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  parish  of  Framley,  the  commission 
was  discussed  very  eagerly  in  that  parish,  and 
was  specially  discussed  by  the  Dowager  Lady 
Lufton. 

And  there  was  a  double  interest  attached  to 
the  commission  in  the  parish  of  Framley  by  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Kobarts,  the  A'icar,  had  been  in- 
vited by  Dr.  Tempest  to  bs  one  of  the  clergy- 
men  who  were  to  assist  in  making  the  inquiry. 
"I  also  propose  to  ask  Mr.  Oriel  of  Greshamsbury 
to  join  us,"  said  Dr.  Tempest.  "The  bisliop 
■wishes  to  appoint  the  otiier  two,  and  has  already 
named  Mr.  Thumble  and  Mv.  Quiverful,  who  are 
both  residents  in  the  city.  Pcrliaps  his  lordship 
may  be  right  in  tliinking  it  better  that  the  mat- 
ter should  not  be  left  altogether  in  the  hands 
of  clergymen  who  hold  livings  in  the  diocese. 
You  are  no  doubt  aware  that  neither  ^Ir.  Thum- 
ble nor  ISIr.  Quiverful  do  hold  any  benellce." 
Mr.  Kobarts  felt — as  every  body  else  did  feci 
who  knew  any  thing  of  the  matter — that  Bishop 
Proudic  was  singularly  ignorant  in  his  knowl- 
edge of  men,  and  that  he  showed  his  ignorance 
on  this  special  occasion.  "  If  he  intended  to 
name  two  such  men  he  should  at  any  rate  have 
named  three,"  said  Dr.  Thome.  "  Mr.  Thum- 
ble and  Mr.  Quiverful  will  simjily  be  outvoted 
on  the  first  day,  and  after  that  will  give  in  their 
adhesion  to  the  majority."  "  Mr.  Thumble,  in- 
deed I"  Lady  Lufton  had  said,  with  much  scorn 
in  her  voice.  To  her  thinking,  it  was  absurd 
in  the  highest  degree  that  such  men  as  Dr. 
Tempest  and  her  Mr.  Robarts  should  be  asked 
to  meet  Mr.  Thumble  and  i\Ir.  Quiverful  on  a 
matter  of  ecclesiastical  business.  Outvoted! 
Of  course  they  would  be  outvoted.  Of  course 
they  Avould  be  so  paralyzed  by  fear  at  finding 
themselves  in  the  presence  of  real  gentlemen 
that  they  would  hardly  be  able  to  vote  at  all. 
Old  Lady  Lufton  did  not  in  fact  utter  words  so 
harsh  as  these  ;  but  thoughts  as  harsh  passed 
through  her  mind.  The  reader  therefore  will 
understand  that  much  interest  was  felt  on  the 
subject  at  Framley  Court,  where  Lady  Lufton 
lived  with  her  son  and  her  daughter-in-law. 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Lady  Lufton,  "that 
both  the  archdeacon  and  Dr.  Tempest  think  it 
right  that  a  commission  should  be  held.  If  so, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  right." 

"  Mark  says  that  the  bishop  could  hardly  do 
any  thing  else,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Kobarts. 


"  I  dare  say  not,  my  dear.  I  suppose  the 
bishop  has  somebody  near  him  to  tell  him  what 
he  may  do  and  what  he  m.ay  not  do.  It  would 
be  terrriblc  to  think  of  if  it  were  not  so.  But 
yet,  when  I  hear  that  he  has  named  such  men 
as  Mr.  Thumble  and  ]\lr.  Quiverful,  I  can  not 
but  feci  that  the  whole  diocese  is  disgraced." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Lufton,  that  is  such  a  strong 
word, "  said  INIrs.  Kobarts. 

"It  may  be  strong,  but  it  is  not  the  less 
true,"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

And  from  talking  on  the  subject  of  the  Craw- 
leys  Lady  Lufton  soon  advanced,  first  to  a  de- 
sire for  some  action,  and  then  to  acting.  "I 
think,  my  dear,  I  will  go  over  and  sec  Mrs. 
Crawley,"  said  hady  Lufton  the  elder  to  Lady 
Lufton  the  younger.  Lady  Lufton  the  younger 
had  nothing  to  urge  against  this  ;  but  she  did 
not  offer  to  accomi)any  the  elder  lady.  I  at- 
tempted to  cx]ilain  in  the  early  part  of  this  stoiy 
that  there  still  existed  a  certain  understanding 
between  Mrs.  Crawlcj'  and  Lord  Lufton's  wife, 
and  that  kindnesses  occasionall}'  passed  fi-oni 
Framley  Court  to  Hogglcstock  Parsonage ;  but 
on  this  occasion  young  Lady  Lufton — the  Lucy 
Kobarts  who  had  once  passed  certain  daj's  of 
her  life  with  the  Crawleys  at  Hogglcstock— did 
not  choose  to  accompany  her  mother-in-law  ; 
and  therefore  Mrs.  Robarts  was  invited  to  do  so. 
"I  think  it  may  comfort  her  to  know  that  she 
has  our  sympathy,"  the  elder  woman  said  to  the 
younger  as  they  made  their  journey  together. 

When  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  little 
wicket-gate,  from  whence  a  ]iath  led  through  a 
ragged  garden  from  the  road  to  Mr.  Crawley's 
house,  Lady  Lufton  hardly  knew  how  to  pro- 
ceed. The  servant  came  to  the  door  of  the  car- 
riage, and  asked  for  her  orders.  "II — m — m, 
ha,  yes  ;  I  think  I'll  send  in  my  card — and  say 
that  I  hope  Mrs.  Crawley  will  be  able  to  see  me. 
Won't  that  be  best;  eh,  F\anny?"  Fanny, 
otherwise  IMrs.  Robarts,  said  that  she  thought 
that  would  be  best ;  and  the  card  and  message 
were  carried  in. 

f  It  was  happily  the  case  that  Mr.  Crawley  was 
not  at  home.  Mr.  Crawley  was  away  at  Hoggle 
End,  reading  to  the  brickmakers,  or  turning  tlie 
mangles  of  their  wives,  or  teaching  tliem  the- 
ology, or  politics,  or  history,  after  his  fashion. 
In  these  days  he  spent,  perhaps,  the  happiest 
hours  of  his  life  down  at  Hoggle  End.  I  say 
that  his  absence  was  a  happy  chance,  because, 
had  he  been  at  home,  he  would  certainly  have 
said  something,  or  done  something,  to  offend 
Lady  Lufton.  He  would  either  have  refused 
to 'see  her,  or  when  seeing  her  he  would  have 
bade  her  hold  her  peace  and  not  interfere  with 
matters  which  did  not  concern  her,  or — more 
probable  still — he  would  have  sat  still  and  sul- 
len, and  have  spoken  not  at  all.  But  he  was 
away,  and  Mrs.  Crawley  sent  out  word  by  the 
servant  that  she  would  be  most  proud  to  see 
her  ladyship,  if  her  ladyship  would  be  pleased 
to  alight.  Her  ladyship  did  alight,  and  walked 
into  the  parsonage,  followed  by  Mrs.  Robarts. 

Grace  was  with  licr  mother.     Indeed  Jano 


^- 


^'*i"- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


223 


li.ad  been  there  also  when  the  message  was 
lirt)ught  in,  but  slic  fled  into  back  regions,  over- 
conic  by  siianie  as  to  lier  frock.  Grace,  I  tiiink, 
would  iiavc  fled  too,  had  she  not  l)een  bound  in 
Iionor  to  support  her  mother.  Lady  Lufton,  as 
slie  entered,  was  very  gracious,  struggling  with 
all  the  power  of  her  womanhood  so  to  carry  her- 
self that  there  should  be  no  outwardly  visible 
sign  of  her  rank  or  her  wealth — but  not  alto- 
gether succeeding.  !RIrs.  Robarts,  on  her  first 
entrance,  said  only  a  word  or  two  of  greeting  to 
I\Irs.  Crawley,  and  kissed  Grace,  whom  she  had 
known  intimately  in  early  years.  '•  Lady  Luf- 
ton," said  ]\Irs.  Crawley,  "  I  am  afraid  this  is  a 
very  poor  place  for  you  to  come  to ;  but  j'ou 
liavc  known  that  of  old,  and  therefore  I  need 
hardly  ajiologize." 

"  Sometimes  I  like  poor  places  best,"  said 
Lady  Lufton.  Then  there  was  a  pause,  after 
which  Lady  Lufton  addressed  herself  to  Grace, 
seeking  some  subject  for  immediate  conversa- 
tion. "You  have  been  down  at  Allington,  my 
dear,  have  you  not?"  Grace,  in  a  whis]ier, 
said  that  she  had.  "Staying  with  the  Dales, 
I  believe  ?  I  know  the  Dales  well  by  name, 
and  I  have  always  heard  that  the}-  are  charming 
people." 

"  I  like  them  very  much,"  said  Grace.  And 
then  there  was  another  pause. 

"I  hope  your  husband  is  pretty  well,  Mrs. 
Crawley?"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

"  He  is  pretty  well — not  quite  strong.  I  dare 
say  you  know,  Lady  Lufton,  that  he  has  things 
to  vex  him  ?"  Mrs.  Crawley  felt  that  it  was 
the  need  of  the  moment  that  the  only  possible 
subject  of  conversation  in  that  house  should  be 
introduced ;  and  therefore  she  brought  it  in  at 
once,  not  loving  the  subject,  but  being  strong- 
ly conscious  of  the  necessity.  Lady  Lufton 
meant  to  be  good-natured,  and  therefore  JMrs. 
Crawley  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  make 
Lady  Lufton's  mission  easy  to  her. 

"Indeed  yes,"  said  her  ladyship,  "we  do 
know  that." 

"  We  feel  so  much  for  you  and  Mr.  Craw- 
ley," said  Mrs.  Robarts  ;  "and  are  so  sure  that 
your  suttcrings  are  unmerited."  This  wns  not 
discreet  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Robarts,  as  she 
was  the  wife  of  one  of  the  clergymen  who  had 
been  selected  to  form  the  commission  of  inqui- 
ry ;  and  so  Lady  Lufton  told  her  on  their  way 
home. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"We  must  only  bear  it  with  such  fortitude  as 
God  will  give  us.  We  are  told  that  He  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

"And  so  He  does,  my  dear,"  said  the  old 
lady,  very  solemnly.  "  So  He  does.  Surely 
you  have  felt  that  it  is  so  ?" 

"I  struggle  not  to  complain,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"I  know  that  you  struggle  bravely.  I  hear 
of  you,  and  I  admire  you  for  it,  and  1  love  you." 
It  was  still  the  old  lady  who  was  speaking,  and 
row  slie  had  at  last  been  roused  out  of  her  dif- 
ficulty as   to  words,  and    had   risen   from   her 


chair,  and  was  standing  before  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"It  is  because  you  do  not  complain,  because 
you  are  so  great  and  so  good,  because  your  char- 
acter is  so  high,  and  your  sjiirit  so  firm  that  I 
could  not  resist  the  temjitation  of  coming  to  you. 
Mrs.  Crawley,  if  you  will  let  me  be  your  friend, 
I  shall  be  proud  of  your  friendship." 

"  Your  ladyship  is  too  good,"  said  IMrs.  Craw- 
ley. 

"Do  not  talk  to  me  after  that  fashion,"  said 
Lady  Lufton.  "If  you  do  I  shall  be  disap- 
pointed and  feel  myself  thrown  back.  You 
know  what  I  mean."  She  paused  for  an  an- 
swer ;  but  Mrs.  Crawley  had  no  answer  to  make. 
She  simjily  shook  her  head,  not  knowing  why 
she  did  so.  But  we  may  know.  We  can  un- 
derstand that  she  had  felt  that  the  friendship  of- 
fered to  her  liy  Lady  Lufton  was  an  impossibility. 
She  had  decided  within  her  own  breast  that  it 
was  so,  though  she  did  not  know  that  she  had 
come  to  such  decision.  "  I  wish  you  to  take 
me  at  my  word,  Mrs.  Crawley,"  continued  Lady 
Lufton.  "What  can  we  do  for  you?  We 
know  that  you  are  distressed." 

"Yes — we  are  distressed." 

"And  wc  know  how  cruel  circumstances 
have  been  to  you.  Will  you  not  forgive  me  for 
being  plain?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"Lady  Lufton  means,"  said  Mrs.  Robarts, 
"that  in  asking  you  to  talk  openly  to  her  of 
your  aftairs,  she  wishes  j-ou  to  I'emember  that — 
I  think  you  know  what  wc  mean,"  said  Mrs. 
Robarts,  knowing  very  well  herself  what  she  did 
mean,  but  not  knowing  at  all  how  to  express 
herself. 

"Lady  Lufton  is  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley, "and  so  are  you,  Mrs.  Robarts.  I  know 
how  good  you  both  are,  and  for  how  much  it 
behooves  me  to  be  grateful."  These  words  were 
vcrj'  cold,  and  the  voice  in  which  they  were 
spoken  was  very  cold.  They  made  Lady  Luf- 
ton feel  that  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  proceed 
with  the  work  of  her  mission  in  its  intended 
spirit.  It  is  ever  so  much  easier  to  profiler  kind- 
ness graciously  than  to  receive  it  with  grace. 
Lady  Lufton  had  intended  to  say,  "Let  us  be 
women  together;  women  bound  by  humanity, 
and  not  separated  by  rank,  and  let  us  open  our 
hearts  freely.  Let  us  see  how  we  may  be  of 
comfort  to  each  other."  And  could  she  have 
succeeded  in  this,  she  would  have  spread  out 
her  little  plans  of  succor  with  so  loving  a  haml 
that  she  would  have  conquered  the  woman  be- 
fore her.  But  the  sufl^ering  spirit  can  not  de- 
scend from  its  dignity  of  reticence.  It  has  a 
nobility  of  its  own,  made  sacred  by  many  tears, 
by  the  flowing  of  streams  of  blood  from  unseen 
wounds,  which  can  not  descend  from  its  dais  to 
receive  pity  and  kindness.  A  consciousness  of 
undeserved  woe  produces  a  grandeur  of  its  own, 
with  which  the  high-souled  sufferer  will  not  easily 
part.  Baskets  full  of  eggs,  pounds  of  eleemos- 
ynary butter,  quarters  of  given  ]iork,  even  sec- 
ond-hand clothing  from  the  wardrobe  of  some 


224 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


richer  sister — even  money,  unsophisticated  nion- 
ev,  she  could  accept.  Siie  h;ul  learned  to  know 
that  it  was  a  portion  of  lier  aUotted  misery  to 
tal;e  sucli  tiiin<j;s — for  tlic  sake  of  her  chiUlrcn 
and  her  husband — and  to  be  tliankful  for  them. 
Slio  did  take  them,  and  was  thankful ;  and  in 
the  taking  slic  submitted  herself  to  the  rod  of 
cruel  circumstances ;  but  she  could  not  even  yet 
briui^  herself  to  accept  s])oken  jiity  from  a  stran- 
ger, and  to  kiss  the  speaker. 

"Can  we  not  do  something  to  help  you?" 
said  :Mrs.  Robarts.  She  would  not  have  si)oken 
but  that  she  perceived  that  Lady  Lufton  had 
completed  herapjieal,  and  that  ]\Irs.  Crawley  did 
not  seem  prepared  to  answer  it. 

"  You  have  done  much  to  help  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawley.  "The  things  you  have  sent  to  us 
liave  been  very  serviceable." 

"But  we  mean  something  more  than  that," 
said  Lady  Lufton. 

"I  do  not  know  what  there  is  more,"  said 
]Mrs.  Crawley.  "  A  bit  to  eat  and  something  to 
wear ;  that  seems  to  be  all  that  we  have  to  care 
for  uow." 

"But  we  were  afraid  that  this  coming  trial 
must  cause  you  so  much  anxiety." 

"Of  course  it  causes  anxiety;  but  wliat  can 
we  do  ?  It  must  be  so.  It  can  not  be  put  off, 
or  avoided.  "We  have  made  up  our  minds  to  it 
now,  and  almost  wish  that  it  would  come  quick- 
er. If  it  wbrc  once  over  I  think  that  he  would 
be  better  whatever  the  result  might  be." 

Then  there  was  another  lull  in  the  conversa- 
tion, and  Lady  Lufton  began  to  be  afraid  that 
her  visit  would  be  a  failure.  She  thought  that 
perhaps  she  might  get  on  better  if  Grace  were 
not  in  the  room,  and  she  turned  over  in  her 
mind  various  schemes  for  sending  her  away. 
And  perhaps  her  task  would  be  easier  if  Mrs. 
Robarts  also  could  be  banished  for  a  time. 
"Fanny,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  boldly,  "I 
know  you  have  a  little  plan  to  arrange  with  Miss 
Crawley.  Perhaps  you  Mill  be  more  likely  to 
be  successful  if  you  can  take  a  turn  with  her 
alone."  There  was  not  much  subtlety  in  her 
ladyshij)'s  scheme  ;  but  it  answered  the  proposed 
purpose,  and  the  two'elder  ladies  were  soon  left 
face  to  face,  so  that  Lady  Lufton  had  a  foir  pre- 
text for  making  another  attempt.  "Dear  Mrs. 
Crawley,"  she  said,  "  I  do  so  long  to  say  a  word, 
to  you,  but  I  fear  that  I  may  be  thought  to  in- 
terfere." 

"  Oh,  no,  Lady  Lufton  ;  I  have  no  feeling  of 
that  kind." 

"I  have  asked  your  daughter  and  Mrs.  Ro- 
barts to  go  out  because  I  can  speak  more  easily 
to  you  alone.  I  wish  I  could  teach  you  to  trust 
me." 

"I  do  trust  you." 

"As  a  friend,  I  mean  ;  as  a  real  friend.  If 
it  should  be  the  case,  Mrs.  Crawley,  that  a  jury 
should  give  a  verdict  against  your  husband — 
what  will  you  do  then?  Perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  suppose  that  it  is  possible." 

"  Of  course  we  know  that  it  is  possible,"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley.     Her  voice  was  stern,  and  there 


was  in  it  a  tone  almost  of  ofTense.  As  she  spoke 
she  did  not  look  at  her  visitor,  but  sat  with  her 
face  averted  and  her  arms  akimbo  on  the  table. 

"Yes — it  is  possible,"  said  Lady  Lufton.  "I 
sup])ose  there  is  not  one  in  the  county  who  does 
not  truly  wish  that  it  may  not  be  so.  But  it  is 
right  to  be  i)repared  for  all  alternatives.  In 
such  case  have  you  thought  what  you  will  do  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  would  do  to  him," 
said  she. 

"I  sujipose  that  for  some  time  he  would 
be—" 

"Put  in  prison,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley,  speak- 
ing very  quickly,  bringing  out  the  words  with  a 
sharp  eagerness  that  was  quite  unusual  to  her. 
"  They  will  send  him  to  jail.  Is  it  not  so,  Lady 
Lufton?" 

"  I  sujipose  it  would  be  so ;  not  for  long  I 
should  hope  ;  but  I  presume  that  such  would  be 
the  sentence  for  some  short  period." 

"And  I  might  not  go  with  him  ?" 

"No  ;  that  would  be  impossible." 

"  And  the  house,  and  the  living;  would  they 
let  him  have  them  again  when  he  came  out?" 

"Ah  !  that  I  can  not  say.  That  will  depend 
much,  probably,  on  what  these  clergymen  will 
report.  I  hope  he  will  not  put  himself  in  o])po- 
sition  to  them." 

"I  do  not  know.  I  can  not  say.  It  is  prob- 
able that  he  may  do  so.  It  is  not  easy  for  a 
man  so  injured  as  he  has  been,  and  one  at  the 
same  time  so  great  in  intelligence,  to  submit 
himself  gently  to  such  inquiries.  When  ill  is 
being  done  to  himself  or  others  he  is  very  prone 
to  o]ipose  it." 

"But  these  gentlemen  do  not  wish  to  do  him 
ill,  Mrs.  Crawley." 

"I  can  not  say.  I  do  not  know.  When  I 
think  of  it  I  see  that  there  is  nothing  but  ruin 
on  every  side.  What  is  the  use  of  talking  of 
it?  Do  not  be  angry,  Lady  Lufton,  if  I  say 
that  it  is  of  no  use." 

"But  I  desire  to  be  of  use — of  real  use.  If 
it  should  be  the  case,  Mrs.  Crawley,  that  your 
husband  should  be — detained  at  Barchcster — " 

"You  mean  imprisoned.  Lady  Lufton." 

"Yes,  I  mean  imprisoned.  If  it  should  be 
so,  then  do  you  bring  yourself  and  your  children 
A— all  of  them — over  to  Framlej',  and  I  will  find 
a  home  for  you  wliile  he  is  lost  to  you." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Lufton  !  I  could  not  do  that." 

"Yes,  you  can.  You  have  not  heard  me 
yet.  It  would  not  be  a  comfort  to  you  in  such 
a  home  as  that  to  sit  at  table  with  jieoplc  wJio 
are  partly  strangers  to  you.  But  there  is  a  cot- 
tage nearly  adjoining  to  the  house,  whicli  you 
shall  have  all  to  yourself.  The  bailiff  lived  in 
it  once,  and  others  have  lived  in  it  who  belong 
to  the  place ;  but  it  is  empty  now  and  it  shall 
be  made  comfortable."  The  tears  were  now 
running  down  Mrs.  Crawley's  face,  so  that  she 
could  not  answer  a  word.  "Of  course  it  is 
my  son's  property,  and  not  mine ;  but  he  has 
commissioned  me  to  say  that  it  is  most  heartily 
at  3'our  service.  He  begs  that  in  such  case  you 
will  occupy  it.     And  I  beg  the  same.     And 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


225 


your  old  friend  Lucy  has  desired  me  also  to  ask 
you  in  her  name." 

"Lady  Lufton,  I  could  not  do  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley,  through  her  tears. 

"You  must  tliink  better  of  it,  my  dear.  I 
do  not  scruple  to  advise  you,  because  I  am  older 
than  you,  and  have  experience  of  the  world." 
This,  I  think,  taken  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  words,  was  a  boast  on  the  part  of  Lady  Luf- 
ton, for  which  but  little  true  pretense  existed. 
Lady  Lufton's  experience  of  the  world  at  large 
was  not  perhaps  extensive.  Nevertheless  she 
knew  what  one  woman  might  offer  to  another, 
and  what  one  woman  might  recei\e  from  an- 
other. "You  would  be  better  over  with  me, 
my  dear,  than  you  could  bc^  elsewhere.  You 
will  not  misunderstand  me  if  I  say  that,  under 
■  such  circumstances,  it  would  do  your  husband 
good  that  you  and  your  children  should  be  un- 
der our  protection  during  his  period  of  tempo- 
rary seclusion.  We  stand  well  in  the  county. 
Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  so,  but  I  do  not  know 
how  otlierwise  to  explain  myself;  and  when  it 
is  known,  by  the  bishop  and  others,  that  you 
have  come  to  us  during  that  sad  time,  it  will  be 
understood  that  we  think  well  of  Mr.  Crawley 
in  spite  of  any  thing  that  a  jury  may  say  of  him. 
Do  you  see  that,  my  dear?  And  we  do  think 
well  of  iiim.  I  have  known  of  your  husband 
for  many  years,  though  I  have  not  personally 
had  the  pleasure  of  much  acquaintance  Mith 
him.  He  was  over  at  Framley  once  at  my  re- 
quest, and  I  had  great  occasion  then  to  respect 
him.  I  do  respect  him  ;  and  I  shall  feel  grate- 
ful to  him  if  he  will  allow  you  to  put  yourself 
and  your  children  under  my  wing,  as  being  an 
old  woman,  should  this  misfortune  fall  upon  him. 
We  hope  that  it  will  not  fall  upon  him  ;  but  it 
is  always  well  to  be  provided  for  the  worst." 

In  this  way  Lady  Lufton  at  last  made  her 
speech  and  opened  out  the  proposal  with  which 
she  had  come  laden  to  Hogglestock.  While 
she  was  speaking  Mrs.  Crawley's  shoulder  was 
still  turned  to  her;  but  the  speaker  could  see 
that  the  cpiick  tears  were  pouring  themselves 
down  the  checks  of  tlie  woman  whom  she  ad- 
dressed. There  was  a  downright  honesty  of 
thorough-going  well-wishing  charity  about  the 
proposition  which  overcame  Mrs.  Crawley  alto- 
gether. She  did  not  feel  for  a  moment  that  it 
would  be  possible  for  her  to  go  to  Framley  in 
such  circumstances  as  those  which  had  been  sug- 
gested. As  she  thought  of  it  all  at  the  present 
moment,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  only  appro- 
priate home  during  the  terrible  period  wliicli  was 
coming  upon  her  would  be  under  the  walls  of 
the  prison  in  which  her  husband  would  be  incar- 
cerated. But  she  fully  appreciated  the  kind- 
ness which  had  suggested  a  measure  which,  if 
carried  into  execution,  would  make  the  outside 
world  feel  that  her  husband  was  respected  in 
the  county  despite  the  degradation  to  which  he 
was  subjected.  She  felt  all  this,  but  her  heart 
was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  Say  that  it  shall  be  so,  my  dear,"  continued 
Lady  Lttfton.      "Just  give  me  one  nod  of  as- 


sent, and  the  cottage  shall  be  ready  for  you 
should  it  so  chance  that  you  should  require 
it." 

But  Mrs.  Crawley  did  not  give  the  nod  of  as- 
sent. With  her  fi;ce  still  averted,  while  the 
tears  were  still  running  down  her  cliccks,  she 
muttered  but  a  word  or  two.  "I  could  not  do 
that,  Lady  Lufton  ;  I  could  not  do  that." 

"You  know  at  any  rate  what  my  wishes  are, 
and  as  you  become  calmer  you  will  think  of  it. 
There  is  quite  time  enough,  and  I  am  speaking 
of  an  alternative  which  may  never  happen. 
My  dear  friend  Mrs.  Robarts,  who  is  now  with 
your  daughter,  wishes  INIiss  Crawley  to  go  over 
to  Framley  Parsonage  while  this  inquiry  among 
the  clergymen  is  going  on.  They  all  say  it  is 
the  most  ridiculous  thing  in  all  the  world — this 
inquir}'.  But  the  bishop  you  know  is  so  silly ! 
We  all  think  that  if  Miss  Crawley  would  go  for 
a  week  or  so  to  Framley  Parsonage,  that  it  will 
show  how  happy  we  all  arc  to  receive  her.  It 
sliould  be  while  Mr.  Robarts  is  employed  in  his 
part  of  the  work.  AVhat  do  you  say,  INIrs.  Craw- 
ley ?  We  at  Framley  are  all  clearly  of  oj)inion 
that  it  will  be  best  that  it  should  be  known  that 
the  people  in  the  county  uphold  your  husband. 
Miss  Crawley  would  be  back,  you  know,  before 
the  trial  comes  on.  I  hope  you  will  let  her 
come,  Mrs.  Crawley  ?" 

But  even  to  this  proposition  Mrs.  Crawley 
could  give  no  assent,  though  she  expressed  no 
direct  dissent.  As  regarded  her  own  feelings, 
she  would  much  have  preferred  to  have  been  left 
to  live  through  her  misery  alone ;  but  she  could 
not  but  appreciate  the  kindness  which  endeav- 
ored to  throw  over  her  and  hers  in  their  trouble 
the  ffigis  of  first-rate  county  respectability.  She 
was  saved  from  the  necessity  of  giving  a  direct 
answer  to  this  suggestion  by  the  return  of  J\lrs. 
Robarts  and  Grace  herself.  The  door  was  opened 
slowlj',  and  they  crept  into  tlie  room  as  though 
they  were  aware  that  their  presence  would  be 
hardly  welcomed. 

"Is  the  carriage  there,  Fanny?"  said  Lady 
Lufton.  "  It  is  almost  time  for  us  to  think  of 
I'eturning  home." 

INIrs.  Robarts  said  that  the  carriage  was  stand- 
ing within  twenty  yards  of  the  door. 

"Then  I  think  we  will  make  a  start,"  said 
Lady  Lufton.  "Have  you  succeeded  in  per- 
suading Miss  Crawley  to  come  over  to  Framley 
in  April  ?" 

Mrs.  Robarts  made  no  answer  to  this,  but 
looked  at  Grace;  and  Grace  looked  down  ujion 
the  ground. 

"I  have  spoken  to  IMi's.  Crawley,"  said  Lady 
Lufton,  "  and  they  will  think  of  it."  Then  the 
two  ladies  took  their  leave,  and  walked  out  to 
their  carriage. 

"What  does  she  say  about  your  plan  ?"  Jlrs. 
Robarts  asked. 

"  She  is  too  broken-hearted  to  say  any  thing," 
Lady  Lufton  answered.  "  Should  it  hapjien 
that  lie  is  convicted,  m'C  must  come  over  and 
take  her.  She  will  have  no  power  then  to  re- 
sist us  in  any  thing." 


22G 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MRS.  DOBItS    BnOUGIlTON    TILKS    HER    FAGOTS. 

Tin;  picture  still  progressed  up  in  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton's  room,  iiml  the  secret  was  still  kci)t, 
or  supposeil  to  bo  kejit.  Miss  Van  Siever  was, 
at  anv  rate,  certain  that  her  mother  had  heard 
nothing  of  it,  and  Mrs.  Broiighton  reported  from 
dav  to  day  that  her  husband  had  not  as  yet  inter- 
fered. Nevertheless  tlierc  was  in  these  days  a 
great  gloom  npon  the  Dobbs  JJroughton  housc- 
iiold,  so  niucii  so  that  Conway  l)alrym])le  had 
more  tiian  once  suggested  to  Mrs.  Broughton  that 
the  work  should  be  discontinued.  Bat  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  wi>uld  not  consent  to  this. 
In  answer  to  these  offers  she  was  wont  to  de- 
clare, in  somewhat  mysterious  language,  that 
any  misery  coming  upon  herself  was  matter  of 
moment  to  nobody— hardly  even  to  herself,  as 
s!ie  was  tpiite  ]>repared  to  encounter  moral  and 
social  death  without  delay,  if  not  an  absolute 
physical  demise;  as  to  which  latter  alternative 
slie  seemed  to  think  tliat  even  that  might  not 
be  so  far  distant  as  some  people  chose  to  be- 
lieve. What  was  the  cause  of  the  gloom  over 
the  house  neither  Conway  Dalrymple  nor  Jliss 
Van  Siever  understood,  and  to  speak  the  truth 
Mrs.  Broughton  did  not  quite  understand  the 
cause  herself.  She  knew  well  enough,  no  doubt, 
that  her  husband  came  home  always  sullen,  and 
sometimes  tipsy,  and  that  things  were  not  goin 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

very  little  toward  providing  the  necessary  el3's-! 


ium  by  any  qualities  of  his  own.      For  a  few  i 
wfcks  this  interference  from  her  husband  had  i 
enhanced  the  amusement,  giving  an  additional  i 
excitement  to  the  game.      She  felt  herself  to  be 
a  woman  misunderstood  and  ill-used;    and  to 
some  women  there  is  nothing  so  charming  as  a 
little  mild  ill-usage,  which  docs  not  intcrferc 
with  their  creature  comforts,  with  their  clothes, 
or  their  carriage,  or  their  sham  jewels ;  but  suf- 
fices to  aftbrd  them  the  indulgence  of  a  griev- 
ance.    Of  late,  however,  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton 
had  become  a  little  too  rough  in  his  language, 
and  things  had  gone  uncomfortably.     She  sus- 
pected   tiiat  Conway  Dalrymjjlc   was   not   the 
only  cause  of  all  this.     She  had  an  idea  that 
Mr.  Musselboro  and  Mrs.  Van  Siever  had  it  in 
their  jiower  to  make  themselves  unjjleasant,  and 
that  they  were  exercising  this  power.     Of  his  ■ 
business  in  the  City  her  husband  never  spoke , 
to  her,  nor  she  to  him.     Iler  own  fortune  had. 
been  very  small,  some  coujde  of  thousand  pounds 
or  so,  and  she  conceived  that  she  had  no  pretext ; 
on  which  she  could,  unasked,  interrogate  hira  i 
about  his  money.      She  had  no  knowledge  that 
marriage  of  itself  had  given  her  the  right  to 
such  interference ;   and    had   such    knowledge 
been  hers  she  would  have  had  no  desire  to  in- 
terfere.    She  hoped  that  the  carriage  and  sham 
jewels  would  be  continued  to  her ;  but  she  did 
not    know  how  to  frame  any  question  on  the 


well  in  the  City.      She  had  never  understood  ;  subject.     Touching   the   other   difficulty — the 


much  about  the  City,  being  satisfied  with  an  as- 
surance that  had  come  to  her  in  early  days  from 
her  friends,  that  there  was  a  mine  of  wealth  in 
Hook  Court,  from  whence  would  always  come 
for  her  use  house  and  furniture,  a  carriage  and 
horses,  dresses  and  jewels,  whicit  latter,  if  not 


quite  real,  should  be  manufactured  of  the  best /Conway  Dalrymple,  and  would  induce  him,  in 


sham  substitute  known.  Soon  after  her  brill 
iant  marriage  with  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  she 
had  discovered  that  the  carriage  and  horses  and 
the  shana  jewels  did  not  lift  her  so  completely 
into  a  terrestrial  paradise  as  she  had  taught  her- 
self to  expect  that  they  would  do.  Iler  brill- 
iant drawing-room,  with  Dobbs  Broughton  for 
a  companion,  was  not  an  clysium.  But  though 
she  had  found  out  early  in  her  married  life  that 
something  was  still  wanting  to  her,  she  had  by 
no  means  confessed  to  herself  that  the  carriage 
and  horses  and  sham  jewels  were  bad,  and  it 
can  hardly  be  said  that  she  had  repented.  She 
had  endeavored  to  patch  up  matters  with  a  little 
romance,  and  then  had  fallen  upon  Conway  Dal- 
rymple— meaning  no  harm.  Indeed,  love  with 
her,  as  it  never  could  have  meant  much  good, 
was  not  likely  to  mean  much  harm.  That 
somebody'  should  pretend  to  love  her,  to  which 
pretense  she  might  rejdy  by  a  pretense  of  friend- 
ship— this  was  the  little  excitement  which  she 
craved,  and  by  which  she  had  once  flattered  her- 
self that  something  of  an  elysium  might  yet  be 
created  for  her.  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  had  un- 
reasonably expressed  a  dislike  to  this  innocent 
amusement — very  unreasonably,  knowing,  as  he 


Conway  D.ilrymple  difficulty — she  had  her  ideas. 
The  tenderness  of  her  friendship  had  been  trod- 
den upon  and  outraged  by  the  rough  foot  of  an 
overbearing  husband,  and  she  was  ill-used.  She 
would  obc}'.  It  was  becoming  to  her  as  a  wife 
that  she  should   submit.     She  would  give   up 


sj)ite  of  his  violent  attachment  to  herself,  to 
take  a  wife.  ^She  herself  would  choose  a  wife  for 
him.  She  herself  would,  with  suicidal  hands, 
destroy  the  romance  of  her  own  life,  since  an 
overbearing,  brutal  hu.^band  demanded  that  it 
should  be  destroyed.  She  would  sacrifice  her 
own  feelings,  and  do  all  in  her  power  to  bring 
Conway  Dahymple  and  Clara  Van  Siever  to- 
gether. If,  after  that,  some  poet  did  not  im- 
mortalize her  friendship  in  Byronic  verse,  she 
certainly  would  not  get  her  due.  Perhaps  Con- 
way Dalrymple  would  himself  become  a  poet 
in  order  that  this  might  be  done  properly.  For 
it  must  be  understood  that,  though  she  expected 
Conway  Dalrymple  to  marry,  she  expected  also 
that  he  should  be  Byronically  wi'etchcd  after  his 
marriage  on  account  of  his  love  for  herself. 

But  there  was  certainly  something  wrong  over 
and  beyond  the  Dalrymple  difficulty.  The 
servants  were  not  as  civil  as  they  used  to  be, 
and  her  husband,  when  she  suggested  to  him  a 
little  dinner-party,  snubbed  her  most  unmerci- 
fully. The  giving  of  dinner-parties  had  been 
his  glory,  and  she  had  made  the  suggestion  sim- 1 
ply  with  the  view  of  jdeasing  him.  "  If  the 
world  were  going  round  the  wrong  way,  a  wo- 


ought  to  have  known,  that  he  himself  did  so  '  man  would  still  want  a  party,"  he  had  said, 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


227 


sneering  at  her.     "It  was  of  you  I  was  think- 
'  ing,  Dobbs,"  she  replied;   "not  of  myself.     I 
I  care  little  for  such  gatherings."     After  that  she 
retired  to  her  own  room  with  a  romantic  tear  in 
;  each   eye,  and   told    herself  that,  had   chance 
'  thrown  Conway  Dalrymple  into  her  way  before 
'  she  had  seen  Dobbs  Broughton,  she  would  have 
'  hccn  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.     She 
sat  for  a  while  looking  into  vacancy,  and  think- 
ing that  it  would  be  very  nice  to  break  her  heart. 
How  should  she  set  about  it  ?     Should  slie  take 
to  lier  bed  and  grow  thin?     She  would  hegin 
bv  eating  no  dinner  for  ever  so  many  days  to- 
gether.    At  lunch  her  husband  was  never  pres- 
eiir,  and  tiicrefore  tlie  broken  heart  could  be  dis- 
jilayed  at  dinner  without  much  positive  snftering. 
In  the  mean  time  she  would  imj>lore  Conway 
l~)aliymplc  to  get  himself  married  with  as  little 
delay  as  ]>ossible,  and  she  would  lay  upon  him 
her  ]iositivc  order  to  restrain  liimsclf  from  any 
v.Lird  of  affection  addressed  to  herself.     Slie,  at 
any  rate,  would  he  pure,  high-minded,  and  self- 
sacvificing — although  romantic  and  poetic  also, 
jias  was  her  nature. 

The  picture  was  progressing,  and  so  also,  as  it 
had  come  about,  was  the  love-affair  between  the 
artist  and  his  model.  Conway  Dalrymple  ha 
begun  to  think  that  he  might,  after  all,  do  wor: 
than  make  Clara  Van  Siever  his  wife.  Clara 
Van  Siever  was  handsome,  and  undoubtedly 
clever,  and  Clara  Van  Siever's  mother  was  cer- 
tainly rich.  And,  in  addition  to  this,  the  young 
lady  herself  began  to  like  the  man  into  whose 
society  she  was  thrown.  The  affair  seemed  to 
flourisli,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  should  have 
been  delighted.  She  told  Clara,  with  a  very 
serious  air,  that  she  was  delighted,  bidding 
Clara,  at  the  same  time,  to  be  very  cautious,  as 
men  were  so  fickle,  and  as  Conway,  though  the 
"best  fellow  in  the  world,  was  not,  perhaps,  al- 
together free  from  that  common  vice  of  men. 
Indeed,  it  might  have  been  surmised,  from  a 
"word  or  two  which  IMrs.  Broughton  allowed  to 
escape,  that  slie  considered  poor  Conway  to  be 
more  than  ordinarily  afflicted  in  that  way.  Miss 
Van  Siever  at  first  only  pouted,  and  said  that 
there  was  nothing  in  it.  "There  is  something 
in  it,  m)'  dear,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  ;  "and  there  can  be  no  earthly  rea- 
son why  there  should  not  be  a  great  deal  in  it." 
There  is  nothing  in  it,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever, 
impetuously  ;  "  and  if  you  will  continue  to  speak 
cf  Mr.  Dalrymple  in  that  way  I  must  give  up 
the  picture."  "As  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton, "I  conceive  that  we  are  both  of  us  bound 
to  the  young  man  now,  seeing  that  he  has  given 
so  much  tiine  to  the  work."  "  I  am  not  bound 
to  him  at  all,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever. 

Mrs.  Broughton  also  told  Conway  Dalrymple 
that  she  was  delighted — oh,  so  much  delighted  ! 
(He  had  oI)tained  permissiou  to  come  in  one 
morning  before  the  time  of  sitting,  so  that  he  j 
might  work  at  his  canvas  independently  of  his 
model.     As  was  his  custom,  he  made  his  own  ' 
way  up  stairs  and  commenced  his  work  alone — I 
having  been  expressly  told  by  Mrs.  Broughton 


that  she  would  not  come  to  him  till  she  brought 
Clara  witli  her.  But  she  did  go  up  to  the  room 
in  which  the  artist  was  painting  without  wait- 
ing for  Miss  Van  Siever.  Indeed,  slie  was  at 
this  time  so  anxious  as  to  the  future  welfare  of 
her  two  young  friends  that  she  could  not  restrain 
herself  from  speaking  cither  to  the  one  or  to  the 
other  whenever  any  opportunity  for  such  speech 
came  round.  To  have  left  Conway  Dalrymple 
at  work  up  stairs  without  going  to  him  was  im- 
possible to  her.  So  she  went,  and  then  took 
the  opportunity  of  expressing  to  her  fiiend  her 
ideas  as  to  his  past  and  future  conduct. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  good;  very  good  indeed," 
she  said,  standing  before  the  easel  and  looking 
at  the  half-completed  work.  "I  do  not  know 
that  you  ever  did  any  thing  better." 

"I  never  can  tell  myself  till  a  picture  is  finish- 
ed whether  it  is  going  to  be  good  or  not,"  said 
Dalrymple,  thinking  really  of  his  picture  and  of 
nothing  else. 

"  I  am  sure  this  will  be  good,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  suppose  it  is  because  you  have  thrown  so  much 
heart  into  it.  It  is  not  mere  industry  that  will 
produce  good  work,  nor  yet  skill,  nor  even  gen- 
ius :  more  than  this  is  required.  The  heart  of 
the  artist  must  be  thrust  with  all  its  gushing 
tides  into  the  performance.''  By  this  time  he 
knew  all  the  tones  of  her  voice  and  their  vari- 
ous meanings,  and  immediately  became  aware 
that  at  the  present  moment  she  was  intent  upon 
something  beyond  the  picture.  She  was  pre- 
paring for  a  little  scene,  and  was  going  to  give 
him  some  advice.  He  understood  it  all,  but  as 
he  was  really  desirous  of  working  at  his  canvas, 
and  was  ratlier  averse  to  having  a  scene  at  that 
moment,  he  made  a  little  attempt  to  disconcert 
her.  "  It  is  the  heart  that  gives  success,"  she 
said,  while  he  was  considering  how  he  might 
best  put  an  extinguisher  upon  licr  romance  for 
the  occasion. 

"Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Broughton:  success  de- 
pends on  elbow-grease." 

"On  what,  Conway?" 

"On  elbow-greese — hard  work,  that  is — 
and  I  must  work  hard  now  if  I  mean  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  to-day"s  sitting.  The  truth  is,  I 
don't  give  enough  hours  of  work  to  it."  And 
he  leaned  upon  his  stick,  and  daubed  away  brisk- 
ly at  the  back-ground,  and  then  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment looking  at  his  canvas  with  his  head  a  lit- 
tle on  one  side,  as  though  he  could  not  with- 
draw his  attention  for  a  moment  from  the  thmg 
he  was  doing. 

"  You  mean  to  say,  Conway,  that  you  would 
rather  that  I  should  not  speak  to  you." 

"  Oh  no,  Mrs.  Broughton,  I  did  not  mean 
that  at  all." 

"  I  won't  interrupt  yo'u  at  your  woik.  What 
I  have  to  sa}-  is  perhaps  of  no  great  moment. 
Indeed,  words  between  you  and  me  never  can 
have  much  importance  now.  Can  they,  Con- 
way?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  said  he,  still  work- 
ing away  with  his  brush. 

"Do  you  not?     I  do.     They  should  never 


228 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


amount  to  more — tlicy  can  never  amount  to 
more  than  tlic  common,  ordinary  courtesies  of 
life ;  what  I  call  the  greetinn;s  and  good-hyings 
of  conversation."  She  said  this  in  a  low,  melan- 
cholv  tone  of  voice,  not  intcndin<:;  to  be  in  any 
degree  jocose.  "  How  sckkim  is  it  that  convci"- 
sation  between  ordinary  friends  goes  beyond 
tliat." 

"Don't  you  think  it  does?"  said  Conway, 
stepping  back  and  taking  anotlicr  look  at  his 
picture.  "  I  find  myself  talking  to  all  manner 
of  people  about  all  manner  of  things." 

"  Yo\i  are  dilVercnt  from  me.  I  can  not  talk 
to  all  manner  of  peojjlc." 

"  rolitics,  you  know,  and  art,  nnd  a  little 
scandal,  and  the  wars,  with  a  dozen  other  things, 
make  talking  easy  enough,  I  think.  I  grant 
you  this,  that  it  is  very  often  a  great  I)ore. 
Hardly  a  day  passes  that  I  don't  wish  to  cut  out 
somebody's  tongue." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  cut  out  my  tongue,  Conway  ?" 

He  began  to  perceive  that  she  was  determ- 
ined to  talk  about  herself,  and  that  there  was  no 
remedy.  He  dreaded  it,  not  because  he  did 
not  like  the  woman,  but  from  a  conviction  that 
she  was  going  to  make  some  comparison  be- 
tween herself  and  Clara  Van  Siever.  In  his  or- 
dinary humor  he  liked  a  little  pretense  at  ro- 
mance, and  was  rather  good  at  that  sort  of  love- 
making,  which  in  truth  means  any  thing  but  love. 
But  just  now  he  was  really  thinking  of  matri- 
mony, and  had  on  this  very  morning  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  that  he  had  become  sufficiently 
attached  to  Clara  Van  Siever  to  justify  him  in 
asking  her  to  be  his  wife.  In  his  present  mood 
he  was  not  anxious  for  one  of  those  tilts  with 
blunted  swords  and  half-severed  lances  in  the 
lists  of  Cupid  of  which  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
Avas  so  fond.  Nevertheless,  if  she  insisted  that 
he  should  now  descend  into  the  arena  and  go 
through  tlie  paraphernalia  of  a  mock  tourna- 
ment, he  must  obey  her.  It  is  the  hardship  of 
men  that  when  called  upon  by  women  for  ro- 
mance they  are  bound  to  be  romantic,  whether 
the  op[)ortunity  serves  them  or  does  not.  A 
man  must  produce  romance,  or  at  least  submit 
to  it,  when  duly  summoned,  even  though  he 
should  have  a  sore-throat  or  a  headache.  He 
is  a  brute  if  he  decline  such  an  encounter ; 
and  feels  that,  should  he  so  decline  persistently, 
he  will  ever  after  be  treated  as  a  brute.  There 
are  many  Potiphar's  wives  who  never  dream  of 
any  mischief,  and  Josephs  who  are  very  anxious 
to  escape,  though  they  are  asked  to  return  only 
whisper  for  whisper.  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
had  asked  him  whether  he  wished  that  her 
tongue  should  be  cut  out,  and  he  had  of  course 
replied  that  her  words  had  always  been  a  joy  to 
him — never  a  trouble.  It  occurred  to  him  as 
he  made  his  little  speech  that  it  would  only  have 
served  her  right  if  he  had  answered  her  quite 
in  another  strain ;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and 
was  young  and  pretty,  and  was  entitled  to  flat- 
tery. "They  have  always  been  a  joy  to  me," 
he  said,  re])eating  his  last  words  as  he  strove  to 
continue  his  work. 


"A  deadly  joy,"  she  replied,  not  quite  know, 
ing  what  she  herself  meant.  "A  deadly  joy. 
Conway.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  we  hat 
never  known  each  other." 

"  I  do  not.  I  will  never  wish  away  the  happl 
ness  of  my  life,  even  should  it  be  followed  bj 
misery." 

"  You  are  a  man,  and  if  trouble  comes  upot 
you  you  can  bear  it  on  your  own  shoulders 
A  woman  suffers  more,  just  because  another*! 
shoulders  may  have  to  bear  the  burden." 

"When  she  has  got  a  husband,  you  mean?' 

"Yes — when  she  has  a  husband." 

"It's  the  same  with  a  man  when  he  has  ti 
wife."  Hitherto  the  conversation  had  had  sc; 
much  of  milk-and-water  in  itscom])osition  thai 
Dalrymjde  found  himself  able  to  keep  it  np  and 
go  on  with  his  back-ground  at  the  same  time* 
If  she  could  only  be  kept  in  the  same  dim  clouci 
of  sentiment,  if  the  hot  rays  of  the  sun  of  ro 
mance  could  be  kept  from  breaking  througl 
the  mist  till  Miss  Van  Siever  should  come,  ii 
might  still  bo  well.  He  had  known  her  to  wan. 
der  about  withiu  the  clouds  for  an  hour  togeth- 
er, without  being  able  to  find  her  way  into  tin 
light.  "It's  all  the  same  with  a  man  whei 
he  has  got  a  wife,"  he  said.  "Of  course  oik 
has  to  suffer  for  two,  when  one,  so  to  say,  i 
two."  I 

"And  what  happens  when  one  has  to  suffer 
for  three  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Y'ou  mean  when  a  woman  has  children  ?" 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,  Conway;  anc 
yon  must  know  that  I  do  not,  unless  your  feel- 
ings are  indeed  blunted.  But  worldly  success 
has,  I  suppose,  blunted  them." 

"I  rather  fancy  not,"  he  said.  "I  thinl> 
they  are  pretty  nearly  as  sharp  as  ever." 

"  I  know  mine  are.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  coulJ 
rid  myself  of  them !  But  it  can  not  be  done. 
Age  will  not  blunt  them — I  am  sure  of  that,' 
said  Mrs.  Broughton.     "  I  wish  it  would." 

"  He  had  determined  not  to  talk  about  her- 
self if  the  subject  could  be  in  any  way  avoided;] 
but  now  he  felt  that  he  was  driven  up  into  a, 
corner ;  now  he  Avas  forced  to  speak  to  her  of 
her  own  personality.  "You  have  no  experi- 
ence yet  as  to  that.  How  can  you  say  whatj 
age  will  do?"  i 

"Age  does  not  go  by  years,"  said  IMrs  Dobb^ 
Broughton.  "We  all  know  that.  'His  haiii 
was  gray,  but  not  with  years.'  Look  here, 
Conway ;"  and  she  moved  back  her  tresses  from, 
off  her  temples  to  show  him  that  there  werej 
gray  hairs  behind.  He  did  not  see  them  ;  and^ 
had  they  been  very  visible  she  might  not  per 
haps  have  been  so  ready  to  exhibit  them.  "No^ 
one  can  say  that  length  of  years  has  blanched 
them.  I  have  no  secrets  from  you  about  my 
age.  One  should  not  be  gray  before  one  has, 
reached  thirty." 

"  I  did  not  see  a  changed  hair." 

"  'Twas  the  fault  of  your  eyes,  then,  for  there, 
are  plenty  of  them.  And  what  is  it  has  made 
them  gray?" 

"  They  say  that  hot  rooms  will  do  it." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


229 


Hot  rooms  !  No,  Conway,  it  docs  not  come 
from  heated  atniosplicre.  It  comes  from  a  cold 
heart,  a  chilled  heart,  a  frozen  heart,  a  heart 
that  is  all  ice."  8iic  was  getting  out  of  the 
cloud  into  the  heat  now,  and  he  could  only  hope 
(that  Miss  Van  Sicvcr  would  come  soon.  "  Tlie 
world  is  beginning  with  you,  Conway,  and  yet 
fj'OU  arc  as  old  as  I  am.  It  is  ending  with  me, 
and  yet  I  am  as  young  as  you  are.  But  I  do 
not  know  why  I  talk  of  all  tliis.  It  is  simply 
folly — utter  folly.  I  had  not  meant  to  speak  of 
myself;  but  I  did  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to 
you  of  your  own  future.  I  suppose  I  may  still 
speak  to  you  as  a  friend  ?" 

"I  hope  you  will  always  do  that." 
"  Nay — I  will  make  no  sucli  jironii.se.  That 
I  will  always  have  a  friend's  feeling  for  you,  a 
friend's  interest  in  your  welfare,  a  friend's  tri- 
Inmpli  in  your  success — that  I  will  promise. 
But  friendly  words,  Conway,  are  sometimes 
iinisunderstood. " 

*'  Never  by  me,"  said  ho. 
"No,  not  by  you — certainly  not  by  you.  I 
3id  not  mean  that.  I  did  not  e.xpcct  tliat  you 
should  misinterpret  them."  Tlien  she  laughed 
hystericall}-— a  little,  low,  gurgling,  hysterical 
laugh  ;  and  after  that  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
then  she  smiled,  and  then  she  put  her  hand  very 
gently  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Thank  God,  Con- 
way, we  are  quite  safe  there — are  we  not?" 

He  had  made  a  blunder,  and  it  was  necessar}' 
that  he  should  correct  it.  His  watch  was  lying 
in  the  trough  of  his  easel,  and  he  looked  at  it 
.find  wondered  why  Miss  Van  Siever  was  not 
there.  He  had  tripped,  and  he  must  make  a 
little  struggle  and  recover  his  step.  "As  I  said 
Licfore,  it  shall  never  be  misunderstood  by  me. 
[  have  never  been  vain  enough  to  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  there  was  any  other  feeling — not 
for  a  moment.  You  women  can  be  so  careful, 
ivhile  we  men  are  always  off  our  guard  !  A 
iinan  loves  because  he  can  not  help  it ;  but  a 
\voman  has  been  careful,  and  answers  him — with 
friendship.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  to  say  that  I 
never  thought  of  winning  any  thing  more  ;  but 
[  never  think  of  winning  more  now."  Why 
the  mischief  didn't  Miss  Van  Siever  come! 
Jin  another  five  minutes,  despite  himself,  he 
irt'ould  be  on  his  knees,  making  a  mock  declara-^ 
Ition,  and  she  would  be  pouring  forth  the  via^ 
bf  her  mock  wrath,  or  giving  him  mock  coun- 
jsc'l  as  to  the  restraint  of  his  passion.  He  had 
fione  through  it  all  before,  and  was  tired  of  it  ; 
hut  for  his  life  he  did  not  know  how  to  help 
rtiimself. 

;     "Conway,"  said    slie,  gravely,   "how    dare 
Itou  address  me  in  such  language  ?" 

Of  course  it  is  verj'  wrong ;  I  know  that." 


dress  mc  in  such  language.     Do  you  not  know 
that  it  is  an  injury  to  another?" 

"  To  wliat  other  ?"  asked  Conway  Dalryniple, 
whose  mind  was  becoming  rather  confused,  and 
who  was  not  quite  sure  whether  the  other  one 
was  Mr.  Dobbs  Brougliton  or  somebody  else. 

"  To  that  poor  girl  who  is  coming  here  now, 
who  is  devoted  to  you,  and  to  whom,  I  do  not 
doubt,  you  have  uttered  words  which  ought  to 
liave  made  it  impossible  for  you  to  speak  to  me 
as  you  spoke  not  a  moment  since." 

Things  were  becoming  very  grave  and  diffi- 
cult. They  would  have  been  very  grave,  in- 
deed, had  not  ^ome  god  saved  him  by  sending 
Jliss  Van  Siever  to  his  rescue  at  this  moment. 
He  was  beginning  to  think  what  he  would  say 
in  answer  to  the  accusation  now  made,  when 
his  eager  car  caught  the  sound  of  her  stc])  upon 
the  stairs ;  and  before  the  pause  in  the  ccnver- 
sation  which  the  circumstances  admitted  had 
given  place  to  the  necessity  for  further  speech 
Miss  Van  Siever  had  knocked  at  the  door  and 
had  entered  the  room.  He  was  rejoiced,  and  I 
think  that  Mrs.  Broughton  did  not  regret  the 
interference.  It  is  always  well  that  these  little 
dangerous  scenes  should  be  brought  to  sudden 
ends.  The  last  details  of  such  romances,  if 
drawn  out  to  their  natural  conclusions,  are  apt 
to  be  uncomfortable,  if  not  dull.  She  did  not 
want  him  to  go  down  on  his  knees,  knowing 
that  the  getting  up  again  is  always  awkward. 

"  Clara,  I  began  to  think  you  were  never 
coming,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  with  her  sweet- 
est smile. 

"  I  began  to  think  so  myself  also,"  said  Clara. 
"And  I  believe  this  must  be  the  last  sitting,  or, 
at  any  rate,  the  last  but  one." 

"Is  any  thing  the  matter  at  home?"  said 
Mrs.  Broughton,  clasping  her  hands  together. 

"Nothing  very  much;  mamma  asked  me  a 
question  or  two  this  morning,  and  I  said  I  was 
coming  here.  Had  she  asked  me  why,  I  should 
have  told  her." 

"But  what  did  she  ask  ?  What  did  she  say ?" 
"  She  docs  not  always  make  herself  very  in- 
telligible. She  complains  without  telling  you 
what  she  complains  of.  But  she  muttered  some- 
thing about  artists  which  was  not  compliment- 
ary, and  I  suppose,  therefore,  that  she  has  a  sus- 
picion. She  staid  ever  so  late  this  morning, 
and  we  left  the  house  together.  Siie  will  ask 
some  direct  question  to-night,  or  before  long, 
and  then  there  will  be  an  end  of  it." 

"Let  us  make  the  best  of  our  time,  then," 
said  Dalrymple  ;  and  the  sitting  was  arranged ; 
Miss  Van  Siever  w-ent  down  on  her  knees  with 
her  hammer  in  her  hand,  and  the  work  began. 
I\Irs.  Broughton   had   twisted   a   turban   round 


"  I'm  not  speaking  of  myself  now.  I  have  Clara's  head,  as  she  always  did  on  these'  occa- 
learned  to  tiiink  so  little  of  myself  as  even  to  I  sions,  and  assisted  to  arrange  the  drapery.  She 
|be  indifferent  to  the  feeling  of  the  injury  you  j  used  to  tell  herself,  as  she  did  so,  that  she  was 
re  doing  me.  ]My  life  is  a  blank,  and  I  almost  like  Isaac,  piling  the  fagots  for  her  own  sacrifice. 
:hink  that  nothing  can  hurt  mc  further.  I  have  Only'  Isaac  had  piled  them  in  ignorance,  and 
jSfiot  heart  left  enough  to  break  ;  no,  not  enougli  ,  she  piled  them  conscious  of  the  sacrificial  flames, 
to  be  broken.  It  is  not  of  myself  that  I  am  I  And  Isaac  had  been  saved;  whereas  it  was  im- 
thinking  when  I  ask  you  how  you  dare  to  ad-    possible  that  the  catching  of  any  ram  in  any 


230 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 


thicket  could  save  Iicr.  But  nevertheless  she 
arranged  the  drapery  with  all  lier  skill,  l»iling 
the  f.igots  ever  so  high  for  her  own  jiyre.  In 
the  mean  time  Conway  Dah-ymple  painted  away, 
thinking  more  of  his  picture  than  he  did  of  one 
woman  or  of  the  other. 

After  a  while,  when  INIrs.  Bronghton  had  piled 
the  fagots  as  high  as  she  could  i)ile  tlicm,  she  got 
up  from  her  seat  and  jircpared  to  leave  the  room, 
^luch  of  the  ])iling  consisted,  of  course,  in  her 
own  absence  during  a  portion  of  these  sittings. 
"  Conway,"  she  said,  as  she  went,  "if  this  is  to 
be  the  last  sitting,  or  the  last  but  one,  you  should 


make  the  most  of  it."  Then  she  threw  upon  him 
a  very  peculiar  glance  over  the  head  of  the  kneel- 
ing Jael,  and  withdrew.  Jael,  who  in  those  mo- 
ments would  be  thinking  more  of  the  fatigue  of 
her  position  than  of  any  thing  else,  did  not  at 
all  take  home  to  herself  the  peculiar  meaning 
of  her  friend's  words.  Conway  Dalrymple  un- 
derstood them  thorough!}',  and  thought  that  he 
might  as  well  take  the  advice  given  to  him. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  propose  to  Miss 
Van  Siever.  and  wliy  should  lie  not  do  so  now? 
He  went  on  with  his  brush  for  a  couple  of  min- 
utes without  saying  a  Avord,  working  as  well  as 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


231 


he  could  work,  and  then  resolved  that  he  would 
at  once  begin  tlie  otiicr  task.  "Miss  Van  Sie- 
ver,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid  you  are  tired." 

"Not  more  than  usually  tired.  It  is  fatigu- 
ing to  be  slaying  Sisera  by  the  hour  together. 

I  do  get  to  hate  this  block."  The  block  was 
the  dummy  by  which  tlie  form  of  Siscra  was 
supi'osed  to  be  ty])ified. 

"Another  sitting  will  about  finish  it,"  said 
]ii\  "so  tliat.you  need  not  positively  distress 
yourself  now.  Will  you  rest  yourself  for  a  min- 
ute or  two?"  He  had  already  perceived  that 
t'.ie  attitude  in  which  Chira  was  posed  before 
him  was  not  one  in  wliich  an  oiler  of  marriage 
coilil  be  received  and  replied  to  with  advantage. 

'•  Thank  you,  I  am  not  tired  yet,"  said  Clara, 
not  clianging  the  tixed  glance  of  national  wrath 
with  wliich  she  regarded  her  wooden  Siscra  as 
i~Ii_'  held  lier  hammer  on  high. 

'•  But  I  am.  There  •,  we  will  rest  for  a  mo- 
rii'iit."  Dalrymple  was  aware  that  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Ur^iighton,  though  she  was  very  assiduous  in 
jiiling  her  fagots,  never  piled  them  for  long  to- 
gi'ilier.  If  he  did  not  make  haste  slie  would  be 
b;K'!;  u])on  them  before  he  could  get  his  word 
sp  ik'Mi.  When  he  put  down  his  brush,  and  got 
lu;!  t'lom  his  chair,  and  stretched  out  liis  arm  as 
a  nuui  does  when  he  ceases  for  a  moment  from 
Iii^  work,  Clara  of  course  got  up  also,  and  seat- 
f.l  herself.  She  was  used  to  her  turban  and 
hor  drapery,  and  therefurc  tliought  not  of  it  at 
all :  and  he  also  was  used  to  it,  seeing  her  in  it 
t,\  )  or  three  times  a  week  ;  but  now  that  he  in- 
fLinled  to  accomplish  a  special  purpose  the  tur- 
ban and  the  drapery  seemed  to  be  in  the  M-ay. 
"  1  do  so  hope  you  will  like  the  picture,"  he  said, 
as  he  was  thinking  of  this. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall.  But  you  will  under- 
stand that  it  is  natural  that  a  girl  should  hot 
lik''  herself  in  such  a  portraituie  as  that." 

'■  I  don't  know  why.  I  can  understand  that 
,you  specially  should  not  like  the  jucture  ;  but  I 
'think  that  most  women  in  London  in  your  place 
wor.ld  at  any  rate  say  that  they  did." 

'•  ^\.rc  you  angry  with  me  ?" 

'•  What ;  fur  telling  the  truth  ?     No  indeed." 

II  '  was  standing  opposite  to  his  easel,  looking 
at  the  canvas,  shifting  his  head  about  so  as  to 
( lunige  the  liglits,  and  observing  critically  this 
11  Miiish  and  that ;  and  yet  he  was  all  the  while 
thin'.ung  liow  he  had  best  carry  out  his  purpose. 
'■  It  will  have  been  a  prosperous  i)icture  to  me," 
ho  said  at  last,  "if  it  leads  to  the  success  of 
which  I  am  ambitious." 

"  I  am  told  that  all  yon  do  is  successful  now 
— merely  because  you  du  it.  That  is  the  worst 
of  success." 

"  What  is  tlie  worst  of  success?" 

"That  when  won  by  merit  it  leads  to  further 
succes-,  for  the  gaining  of  which  no  merit  is 
necessary." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so  in  my  case.  If  it  is  not 
I  shall  have  a  very  ]ioor  chance.  Clara,  I  think 
you  must  know  that  I  am  not  talking  about  my 
pictures." 

"I  thought  you  were." 


"Indeed  I  am  not.  As  for  success  in  my 
profession,  far  as  I  am  from  thinking  I  nunit  it, 
I  feel  tolerably  certain  that  I  shall  obtain  it." 

"You  have  obtained  it." 

"  I  am  in  the  way  to  do  so.  I'crhajis  oik;  out 
of  ten  struggling  artists  is  successful,  and  fur 
him  the  jjrofession  is  very  charming.  It  is  cer- 
tainly a  sad  feeling  that  there  is  so  much  of 
chance  in  the  distribution  of  the  prizes.  It  is 
a  lottery.  But  one  can  not  com])lain  of  that 
wlien  one  has  drawn  the  prize."  Dalrymple  was 
not  a  man  Avithout  self-possession,  nor  was  ho 
readily  abashed,  but  he  found  it  easier  to  talk 
of  his  i>ossession  than  to  make  his  olfer.  The 
turban  was  his  difficulty.  He  had  told  himself 
over  and  over  again  within  tlic  last  five  minutes 
that  he  would  have  long  since  said  what  he  liad 
to  say  had  it  not  been  for  the  turban.  lie  had 
been  painting  all  his  life  from  living  models — 
from  women  dressed  up  in  this  or  that  costume, 
to  suit  the  necessities  of  his  picture — but  he  had 
never  made  love  to  any  of  them.  They  had 
been  simply  models  to  him,  and  now  he  found 
that  there  was  a  difficulty.  "Of  that  prize," 
he  said,  "I  have  made  myself  tolerably  sure; 
but  as  to  the  other  prize  I  do  not  know.  I  won- 
der wiiether  I  am  to  have  that."  Of  course  Miss 
Van  Siever  understood  well  what  was  the  prize 
of  which  he  was  speaking;  and  as  she  was  a 
young  woman  with  a  M'ill  and  purpose  of  her 
own,  no  doubt  she  was  already  prepared  with 
an  answer.  But  it  was  necessary  that  the  ques- 
tion should  be  put  to  her  in  proi)2rly  distinct 
terms.  Conway  Dalrymple  certainly  had  not 
put  his  question  in  properly  distinct  terms  at 
present.  She  did  not  choose  to  make  any  an- 
swer to  his  last  words  ;  and  therefore  sim])ly  sug- 
gested that  as  time  was  ])ressing  he  had  better 
go  on  with  his  work.  "  I  am  quite  ready  now," 
said  she. 

' '  Stop  half  a  moment.  How  much  more  yon 
are  thinking  of  the  jncture  than  I  am!  I  do 
not  care  twojience  for  the  jiicture.  I  will  slit 
the  canvas  from  top  to  bottom  without  a  groan- 
without  a  single  inner  groan — if  you  will  let  me." 

"For  heaven's  sake  do  nothing  of  the  kind  ! 
Why  should  you?" 

"Just  to  show  you  that  it  is  not  for  the  sake 
of  the  picture  that  I  come  here.  Clara — " 
Then  the  door  was  opened,  and  Isaac  a]'peared, 
very  weary,  having  been  piling  fagots  with  as- 
siduity till  human  nature  could  pile  no  more. 
Conway  Dalrymple,  who  had  made  his  way  al- 
most up  to  Clara's  seat,  turned  round  sharply 
toward  his  easel,  in  anger  at  having  been  dis- 
turbed. He  should  have  been  more  grateful  for 
all  that  his  Isaac  had  done  for  liim,  and  have 
recognized  the  fact  that  the  fault  had  been  with 
himself.  ISIrs.  Broughton  had  been  twelve  min- 
utes out  of  the  room.  She  had  counted  them 
to  be  fifteen — having  no  doubt  made  a  mistake 
as  to  three — and  had  told  herself  that  with  such 
a  one  as  Conway  Dalrymple,  with  so  much  of 
the  work  ready  done  to  his  hand  for  him,  fifteen 
minutes  should  have  been  amply  sufficient. 
When  we  reflect  what  her  own  thoughts  must 


233 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


have  been  during  the  interval — what  it  is  to 
have  to  jiilc  up  such  fagots  as  tliosc — liow  she 
was,  as  it  were,  j^iviug  away  a  fresh  morsel  of 
her  own  heart  during  each  minute  that  slic  al- 
lowed Clara  and  Conway  l')ahwmj)le  to  remain 
together,  it  can  not  surprise  us  that  her  eyes 
should  have  become  dizzy,  and  that  she  should 
not  have  counted  tlic  minutes  with  accurate 
correctness.  l)alryni])lo  turned  to  ids  jjicture 
angrily,  but  Miss  Van  Siever  ke])t  her  seat  and 
did  not  show  tlie  slightest  emotion. 

"  ^ly  friends,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  "this 
will  not  do.  This  is  not  working;  this  is  not 
sitting." 

"Mr.  Dalrymplc  has  been  explaining  to  me 
the  jirecarious  nature  of  an  artist's  profession," 
said  Clara. 

"  It  is  not  precarious  with  him,"  said  Jlrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton,  scntentiously. 

"Not  in  a  general  way,  jjcrliaps ;  but  to 
prove  tlie  trutli  of  his  words  he  was  going  to 
treat  Jael  worse  tlian  Jael  treats  Sisera." 

"I  was  going  to  slit  the  picture  from  the  toj) 
to  the  bottom." 

"And  wliy?"said  Mrs.  Broughton,  putting 
up  her  hands  to  heaven  in  tragic  horror. 

"Just  to  show  Miss  Van  Siever  liow  little  I 
care  about  it." 

"And  how  little  you  care  about  her,  too," 
said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"She  might  take  that  as  she  liked."  After 
this  there  was  another  genuine  sitting,  and  the 
real  work  went  on  as  tliough  there  had  been  no 
episode.  Jael  fixed  her  face  and  held  her  ham- 
mer as  though  her  mind  and  heart  were  solely 
bent  on  seeming  to  be  slaying  Sisera.  Dalrym- 
])le  turned  his  eyes  from  the  canvas  to  the  mod- 
el, and  from  the  model  to  the  canvas,  working 
witli  his  hand  all  the  while,  as  though  that  last 
pathetic  "  Clara"  had  never  been  uttered  ;  and 
INIrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  reclined  on  a  sofa,  look- 
ing at  tliem  and  tliinking  of  her  own  singularly 
romantic  position  till  her  mind  was  filled  with 
a  poetic  frenzy.  In  one  moment  she  resolved 
tliat  she  would  hate  Clara  as  woman  was  never 
hated  by  woman  ;  and  then  there  were  daggers 
and  poison-cups  and  strangling  cords  in  iier 
eye.  In  the  next  she  was  as  firmly  determined 
that  slie  would  love  Mrs.  Conway  Dalrymple  as 
woman  never  was  loved  by  woman  ;  and  then 
she  saw  lierself  kneeling  by  a  cradle,  and  ten- 
derly nursing  a  baby,  of  which  Conway  was  to 
be  the  father  and  Clara  the  motlier.  And  so 
she  went  to  sleep. 

For  some  time  Dalrymple  did  not  observe 
this ;  but  at  last  there  was  a  little  sound — even 
the  ill-nature  of  Miss  Demolincs  could  hardly 
liave  called  it  a  snore — and  he  became  aware 
tliat  for  jiractical  purposes  ho  and  Miss  Van 
Siever  were  again  alone  together.  "Clara," lie 
said,  in  a  whisper.  Mrs.  Broughton  instantly 
aroused  herself  from  her  slumbers,  and  rubbed 
her  eyes.  "Dear,  dear,  dear !"  she  said  ;  "I  de- 
clare it's  past  one.  I'm  afraid  I  must  turn  you 
both  out.  One  more  sitting,  I  suppose,  will 
finish  it,  Conway?" 


"Yes,  one  more,"  said  he.  It  was  always 
understood  that  lie  and  Clara  should  not  leave 
the  house  togetlicr,  and  therefore  he  remained 
jjaintingwhen  slie  left  the  room.  "And  now, 
Conway," said  Mrs.  Broughton,  "  I  sujiposc  that 
all  is  over?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  all  being 
over." 

"No — of  course  not.  You  look  at  it  in  another 
light,  no  doubt.  Every  thing  is  beginning  for 
you.  But  you  must  pardon  me,  for  my  heart 
is  distracted — distracted — distracted!"  Then 
she  sat  down  upon  the  floor  and  burst  into  tears. 
Wiiat  was  he  to  do?  lie  thought  that  the  wo- 
man should  either  give  him  up  altogether  or 
not  give  him  up.  All  tiiis  fuss  about  it  was  ir- 
rational !  He  would  not  Iiave  made  love  to 
Clara  Van  Siever  in  her  room  if  she  had  not 
told  him  to  do  so  ! 

"  Maria,"  he  said,  in  a  very  grave  voice, 
"any  sacrifice  that  is  required  on  my  part  on 
your  belialf  I  am  ready  to  make." 

"No,  Sir;  tiic  sacrifices  sliall  all  be  made  by 
me.  It  is  the  j)art  of  a  woman  to  be  ever  sac- 
rificial!" Poor  Mrs.  Dobbs  Brougliton  !  "You 
sliall  give  up  notliing.  The  world  is  at  your 
feet,  and  you  sliall  have  every  thing — youth, 
beauty,  wealth,  station,  love — love  ;  and  friend- 
sliip  also,  if  you  will  accept  it  from  one  so  poor, 
so  broken,  so  secluded  as  I  sliall  be."  At  each 
of  the  last  words  there  had  been  a  desperate 
sob  ;  and  as  she  was  still  crouching  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  looking  up  into  Dalrymple's 
face  while  he  stood  over  her,  the  scene  was  one 
which  had  much  in  it  that  transcended  the  do- 
ings of  everyday  life,  much  that  would  be  ever' 
memorable,  and  much,  I  have  no  doubt,  that 
was  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  the  jirincipal  actor. 
As  for  Conway  Dalrymple,  he  was  so  second- 
rate  a  personage  in  the  whole  thing  that  it 
mattered  little  whether  he  enjoyed  it  or  not.  I 
don't  think  he  did  enjoy  it.  "And  now,  Con- 
way," she  said,  "I  will  give  you  some  advice. 
And  when  in  after-days  you  shall  remember  this 
interview,  and  reflect  how  that  advice  was  given 
you- — with  what  solemnity" — here  she  clasped 
both  her  liands  together — "I  think  that  you  will 
follow  it.  Clara  Van  Siever  will  now  become 
your  wife." 

,  "  I  do  not  know  that  at  all,"  said  Dalrymple. 
;'  "  Clara  Van  Siever  will  now  become  your 
wife,"  repeated  Mrs.  Broughton,  in  a  louder 
voice,  impatient  of  opposition.  "  Love  her. 
Cleave  to  her.  Make  her  flesh  of  your  flesh 
and  bone  of  your  bone.  But  rule  her !  Yes, 
rule  her !  Let  her  be  your  second  self,  but  not 
your  first  self.  Rule  her.  Love  her.  Cleave 
to  her.  Do  not  leave  her  alone  to  feed  on  her 
own  thoughts  as  I  have  done — as  I  have  been 
forced  to  do.  Now  go.  No,  Conway,  not  a 
word ;  I  will  not  hear  a  word.  You  must  go, 
or  I  must."  Then  she  rose  quickly  from  her 
lowly  attitude,  and  prejiared  herself  for  a  dart 
at  the  door.  It  was  better  by  far  that  he  should 
go,  and  so  he  went. 

An  American  when  he  has  spent  a  pleasant 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


233 


day  will  tell  you  that  ho  has  had  "  a  <;ood  time." 
I  think  that  Mrs.  Dobbs  Brouj^htoii,  if  she  had 
cvers])oken  the  truth  of  tliat  day's  eniployiiieiit, 
wouhl  have  ackiiowledf^ed  that  she  liad  had  "  a 
good  time."  I  think  that  she  enjoyed  her  morn- 
ing's work.  But  as  for  Conway  Dalrymj)le,  I 
doubt  whether  he  did  enjoy  his  morning's  work. 
"A  man  may  have  too  much  of  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  then  he  becomes  very  sick  of  his 
cake."  Such  was  the  nature  of  liis  thoughts  as 
he  returned  to  his  own  abode. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

AVIIY  don't  you  have  AN  "  IT  "  FOR  YOURSELF? 

Of  course  it  came  to  pass  that  Lily  Dale  and) 
Emily  Dunstable  were  soon  very  intimate,  and 
that  tliey  saw  each  other  every  day.  Lideed, 
b3fore  long  they  would  have  been  living  togeth- 
er in  the  same  house  had  it  not  been  that  the 
squire  had  felt  reluctant  to  abandon  the  inde- 
pendence of  his  own  lodgings.  Wheu  JNIrs. 
Thome  had  pressed  her  invitation  for  the  second, 
and  then  for  the  third  time,  asking  them  both  to 
come  to  her  large  house,  he  had  begged  his 
niece  to  go  and  leave  him  alone.  "You  need 
not  regard  me,"  he  had  said,  speaking  not  with 
the  winning  voice  of  complaint,  but  with  that 
thin  tinge  of  melancholy  which  was  usual,  to 
him.  "  I  am  so  much  alone  down  at  Allington 
that  you  need  not  mind  leaving  me. "  But  Lily 
Avouldnot  go  on  those  terms,  and  therefore  they 
still  lived  together  in  the  lodgings.  Neverthe- 
less Lily  was  every  day  at  Mrs.  Thome's  house, 
and  thus  a  great  intimacy  grew  up  between  the 
girls.  Emily  Dunstable  had  neither  brother  nor 
sister,  and  Lily's  nearest  male  relative  in  her 
own  degree  was  now  Miss  Dunstable's  betrothed 
husband.     It  was  natural  therefore  that  they 


should  at  any  rate  try  to  like  each  other.  It 
afterward  came  to  pass  that  Lily  did  go  to  Mrs. 
Thome's  liousc,  and  she  staid  there  for  a  while  ; 
but  when  that  occurred  the  squire  had  gone  back 
to  Allington. 

Among  otiier  generous  kindnesses  Mrs.  Thorne 
insisted  that  Bernard  should  hire  a  horse  for 
his  cousin  Lily.  Emily  Dunstable  rode  daily, 
and  of  course  Captain  Dale  rode  with  her; 
and  now  Lily  joined  the  party.  Almost  before 
she  knew  what  was  being  done  she  found  her- 
self provided  with  hat  and  haljit  and  horse  and 
whip.  It  was  a  way  with  Mrs.  Tiiorne  that 
they  who  came  within  the  influence  of  her  im- 
mediate sjjhere  should  be  made  to  feel  that  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  arising  from  her  wealth 
belonged  to  a  common  stock,  and  were  the  joint 
jjrojierty  of  them  all.  Things  were  not  oftered 
and  taken  and  talked  about,  but  they  made 
their  appearance,  and  were  used  as  a  matter  of 
course.  If  you  go  to  stay  at  a  gentleman's 
house  you  understand  that,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
you  will  be  provided  with  meat  and  drink. 
Some  hosts  furnish  you  also  with  cigars.  A 
small  number  give  you  stabling  and  forage  for 
your  horse ;  and  a  very  select  few  mount  30U 
on  hunting  days,  and  send  you  out  with  a  groom 
and  a  second  horse.  Mrs.  Thorne  went  beyond 
all  others  in  this  open-handed  hospitality.  She 
had  enormous  wealth  at  her  command,  and  had 
but  few  of  those  all-absorbing  drains  upon  wealth 
which  in  this  country  make  so  many  rich  men 
poor.  She  had  no  fiimily  pi-operty — no  place 
to  keep  up  in  which  she  did  not  live.  She  had 
no  retainers  to  be  maintained  because  they  were 
retainers.  She  had  neither  sons  nor  daughters. 
Consequently  she  was  able  to  be  lavish  in  her 
generosity ;  and  as  her  heart  was  very  lavish, 
she  would  have  given  her  friends  gold  to  eat  had 
gold  been  good  for  eating.  Indeed  there  was 
no  measure  in  her  giving — unless  when  the 
idea  came  upon  her  that  the  recipient  of  her  fa- 
vors was  trading  on  them.  Then  she  could  hold 
her  hand  very  stoutly. 

Lily  Dale  had  not  liked  the  idea  of  being  fit- 
ted out  thus  expensively.  A  box  at  the  o]iera 
was  all  very  well,  as  it  was  not  procured  especial- 
ly for  her.  And  tickets  for  other  theatres  did 
not  seem  to  come  unnaturally  for  a  night  or 
two.  But  her  spirit  had  militated  against  the 
hat  and  the  habit  and  the  horse.  The  whip  was 
a  little  present  from  Emily  Dunstable,  and  that 
of  course  was  accepted  with  a  good  grace. 
Then  there  came  the  horse — as  though  from 
the  heavens ;  there  seemed  to  be  ten  horses, 
twenty  horses,  if  any  body  needed  them.  All 
these  things  seemed  to  flow  naturally  into  Mrs. 
Thome's  establishment,  like  air  through  the 
windows.  It  was  very  pleasant,  but  Lily  hesi- 
tated when  she  was  told  that  a  habit  was  to  be 
given  to  her.  "My  dear  old  aunt  insists," 
said  Emily  Dunstable.  "Nobody  ever  thinks 
of  refusing  any  thing  from  her.  If  you  only 
knew  what  some  people  will  take,  and  some  peo- 
ple will  even  ask,  who  have  nothing  to  do  with 
her  at  all !"     "  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 


234 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


her — in  that  way  I  mean,"  said  Lilj'.  "Oh 
yes,  you  luive,"  said  Emily.  "You  and  Ber- 
nard are  as  good  as  brother  and  sister,  and  Ber- 
nard and  I  are  as  good  as  man  and  wife,  and 
my  aunt  and  I  are  as  good  as  mother  and  diuigh- 
ter.  So  you  see,  in  a  sort  of  a  way  you  are  a 
child  of  the  house."  So  Lily  accepted  the  hab- 
it ;  but  made  a  stand  at  the  hat,  and  jjaid  fur 
that  out  of  her  own  ])ocket.  "When  the  squire 
had  seen  Lily  on  horseback  he  asked  her  ques- 
tions about  it.  "It  was  a  hired  horse,  I  suji- 
pose?"  he  said.  "I  think  it  came  direct  from 
heaven,"  said  Lily.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Lily?"  said  the  squire,  angrilj'.  "I  mean 
that  when  i)eople  are  so  rich  and  good-natured 
as  Mrs.  Thorne  it  is  no  good  inquiring  wiiere 
things  come  from.  All  that  I  know  is  that  the 
horses  come  out  of  Potts's  livery-stable.  They 
talk  of  Potts  as  if  he  were  a  good-natured  man 
who  provides  horses  for  the  world  without 
troubling  any  body."  Then  the  squire  spoke  to 
Bernard  about  it,  saying  that  he  should  insist 
on  defraying  his  niece's  expenses.  But  Bernard 
swore  that  he  could  give  his  uncle  no  assistance. 
"  I  would  not  sjjeak  to  her  about  such  a  thing 
for  all  the  world,"  said  Bernard.  "Then  I 
shall,"  said  the  squire. 

In  those  days  Lily  thought  much  of  John- 
ny Eames — gave  to  him  perhaps  more  of  that 
thought  which  leads  to  love  than  she  had  ever 
given  him  before.  Shu  still  heard  the  Crawley 
question  discussed  every  day.  Mrs.  Thorne,  as 
we  all  know,  was  at  this  time  a  Barsctshire  per- 
sonage, and  was  of  course  interested  in  Barsct- 
shire subjects  ;  and  she  was  specially  anxious 
in  the  matter,  having  strong  hopes  with  refer- 
ence to  the  marriage  of  Major  Grantley  and 
Grace,  and  strong  hopes  also  that  Grace's  father 
might  escape  the  fangs  of  justice.  The  Craw- 
ley case  was  constantly  in  Lily's  ears,  and  as 
constantly  she  heard  high  praise  awarded  to 
Johnny  for  his  kindness  in  going  after  the  Ara- 
bins.  "  He  must  be  a  fine  young  fellow,"  said 
Mrs.  Thorne,  "  and  we'll  have  him  down  at 
Chaldicotes  some  day.  Old  Lord  De  Guest 
found  him  out  and  made  a  friend  of  him,  and 
old  Lord  De  Guest  was  no  fool."  Lily  was 
not  altogether  free  from  a  suspicion  that  Mrs. 
Thorne  knew  the  story  of  Johnny's  love  and 
was  trying  to  serve  Johnny — as  other  people 
had  tried  to  do,  veiy  ineffectually.  When  this 
suspicion  came  upon  her  she  would  shut  her 
heart  against  her  lover's  praises,  and  swear  that 
she  would  stand  by  those  two  letters  which  she 
had  written  in  her  book  at  home.  But  the  sus- 
picion would  not  be  always  there,  and  there  did 
come  upon  her  a  conviction  that  her  lover  was 
more  esteemed  among  men  and  women  than 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  believe.  Her  cous- 
in, Bernard  Dale,  who  certainly  was  regarded 
in  the  world  as  somebody,  spoke  of  him  as  his 
equal ;  whereas  in  former  days  Bernard  had  al- 
ways regarded  Johnny  Eames  as  standing  low 
in  the  world's  regard.  Then  Lih',  when  alone, 
would  remember  a  certain  comparison  which 
she  once  made  between  Adolphus  Crosbie  and 


John  Eames,  M'lien  neither  of  the  men  had  as 
yet  i)leadcd  his  cause  to  her,  and  which  had 
been  very  much  in  favor  of  the  former.  She 
had  then  declared  that  Johnny  was  a  "mere 
clerk."  She  had  a  higher  opinion  of  him  now — 
a  much  higher  opinion,  even  tliough  he  could 
never  be  more  to  her  than  a  friend. 

In  these  days  Lily's  new  ally,  Emily  Dunsta- 
ble, seemed  to  Lily  to  be  so  happy  !  There  was 
in  Emily  a  complete  realization  of  that  idea  of 
ante-nuptial  blessedness  of  which  Lily  had  often 
thought  so  much.  Whatever  Emily  did  she  did 
for  Bernard  ;  and,  to  give  Ca'j^tain  Dale  his  due, 
he  received  all  the  sweets  which  were  showered 
uj)on  him  with  becoming  signs  of  gratitude.  I 
suppose  it  is  always  the  case  at  such  times  that 
the  girl  lias  the  best  of  it,  and  on  this  occasion 
Emily  Dunstable  certainly  made  the  most  of  licr 
happiness.  "I  do  envy  you,"  Lily  said  one 
day.  The  acknowledgment  seemed  to  have  been 
extorted  from  her  involuntarily.  She  did  not 
laugh  as  she  spoke,  or  follow  up  what  she  had 
said  with  other  words  intended  to  take  away  the 
joke  of  what  she  had  uttered — had  it  been  a 
joke  ;  but  she  sat  silent,  looking  at  tlic  girl 
who  was  rearranging  flowers  which  Bernard  Imd 
brought  to  her. 

"I  can't  give  him  up  to  you,  you  know,"  said 
Emily. 

"  I  don't  envy  you  him,  but  *  it,'  "  said  Lily. 

"Then  go  and  get  an  'it'  for  yourself.  Why 
don't  you  have  an  'it'  for  yourself?  You  can 
have  an  '  it'  to-morrow,  if  you  like — or  two  or 
three,  if  all  that  I  hear  is  true." 

' '  No,  I  can't, "  said  Lily.  "  Things  have  gone 
wrong  with  me.  Don't  ask  me  any  thing  more 
about  it.  Pray  don't.  I  sha'n't  speak  of  it  if 
you  do." 

"  Of  course  I  will  not  if  you  tell  me  I  must 
not." 

"  I  do  tell  you  so.  I  have  been  a  fool  to  say 
any  thing  about  it.  However,  I  have  got  over 
my  envy  now,  and  am  ready  to  go  out  with  your 
aunt.      Here  she  is." 

"Things  have  gone  wrong  with  me."  She 
repeated  the  same  words  to  herself  over  and 
over  again.  With  all  the  efforts  which  she  had 
made  she  could  not  quite  reconcile  herself  to 
the  two  letters  which  she  had  written  in  the 
book.  This  coming  up  to  London,  and  riding 
in  the  Park,  and  going  to  the  theatres,  seemed 
to  unsettle  her.  At  home  she  had  schooled  her- 
self down  into  quiescence,  and  made  herself 
think  that  she  believed  that  she  was  satisfied 
with  the  prosjiects  of  her  life.  But  now  she  was 
allastraj'  again,  doubting  about  herself,  hanker- 
ing after  something  over  and  beyond  that  which 
seemed  to  be  allotted  to  her — but  nevertheless  as- 
suring herself  that  she  never  would  accept  of 
any  thing  else. 

I  must  not,  if  I  can  help  it,  let  the  readei 
suppose  that  she  was  softening  her  heart  to  John 
Eames  because  John  Eames  was  spoken  well  of 
in  the  world.  But  with  all  of  us,  in  the  opinion 
which  we  form  of  tliose  around  us,  we  take  un- 
consciously the  opinion  of  others.     A  woman  is 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


235 


handsome  because  the  world  says  so.  Music 
is  charming  to  us  because  it  charms  others. 
We  drink  our  wines  with  other  men's  palates, 
and  look  at  our  pictures  with  other  men's  eyes. 
When  Lily  heard  John  Eamcs  praised  by  all 
around  her,  it  could  not  be  but  that  she  should 
praise  him  too — not  out  loud,  as  others  did,  but  in 
the  silence  of  her  heart.  And  then  his  constancy 
to  her  had  been  so  perfect !  If  that  other  one 
had  never  come  !  If  it  could  be  that  she  might 
begin  again,  and  that  she  miglit  be  spared  that 
episode  in  her  life  which  had  brought  him  and 
her  together ! 

"  When  is  Mr.  Eamcs  going  to  be  back  ?" 
Mrs.  Thorne  said  at  dinner  one  day.  On  tliis 
occasion  the  squire  was  dining  at  IMrs.  Thome's 
house ;  and  there  were  three  or  four  others  there 
— among  them  a  Mr.  Harold  Smith,  who  was  in 
Parliament,  and  his  wife,  and  John  Eames's 
especial  friend.  Sir  Raffle  Buffle.  The  question 
was  addressed  to  the  squire,  but  the  squire  was 
slow  to  answer,  and  it  was  taken  up  by  Sir  Raf- 
fle Buffle. 

"  He'll  be  back  on  the  15th,"  said  the  knight, 
''unless  he  means  to  play  truant.  I  hope  he 
won't  do  that,  as  his  absence  has  been  a  terrible 
inconvenie!ice  to  me."  Then  Sir  Raffle  explain- 
ed that  John  Eames  was  his  private  secretary, 
and  that  Johnny's  journey  to  the  Continent  had 
been  made  with,  and  could  not  have  been  made 
without,  his  sanction.  "When  I  came  to  hear 
the  story,  of  course  I  told  Iiira  that  he  must  go. 
*  Eames,'  I  said,  '  take  the  advice  of  a  man  who 
knows  the  world.  Circumstanced  as  you  are, 
you  are  bound  to  go.'     And  he  went." 

"  Upon  my  word  that  Avas  very  good-natured 
of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne. 

"  I  never  keep  a  fellow  to  his  desk  who  has 
really  got  important  business  elsewhere,"  said 
Sir  Raffle.  "  The  country,  I  say,  can  afford  to 
do  as  much  as  that  for  her  servants.  But  then 
I  like  to  know  that  the  business  is  business. 
One  doesn't  choose  to  be  humbugged." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  humbugged,  as  you  call 
it,  very  often,"  said  Harold  Smith. 

"Perhaps  so ;  perhaps  I  am  ;  perhaps  that  is 
the  opinion  which  they  haveof  me  attheTreasurv. 
But  you  were  hardly  long  enough  there,  Smith, 
to  have  learned  much  about  it,  I  should  say." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  known  much 
about  it,  as  you  call  it,  if  I  had  staid  till 
Doomsday." 

"  I  dare  say  not ;  I  dare  say  not.  Men  who 
begin  as  late  as  you  did  never  know  what  official 
life  really  means.  Now  I've  been  at  it  all  my 
life,  and  I  think  I  do  understand  it." 

"It's  not  a  profession  I  should  like,  unless 
where  it's  joined  with  politics,"  said  Harold 
Smith. 

"But  then  it's  apt  to  be  so  short,"  said  Sir 
Raffle  Buffle.  Now  it  liad  happened  once  in 
the  life  of  Mr.  Harold  Smith  that  he  had  been 
in  a  Ministry,  but,  unfortunately,  that  Ministry 
had  gone  out  almost  within  a  week  of  the  time 
of  Mr.  Smith's  adhesion.  Sir  Raffle  and  Mr. 
Smith  had  known  each  other  for  many  years, 


and  were  accustomed  to  make  civil  little  speeches 
to  each  other  in  society. 

"I'd  sooner  be  a  horse  in  a  mill  than  have 
to  go  to  an  office  every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Smith, 
coming  to  her  husband's  assistance.  "  You,  Sir 
Raffle,  have  kept  yourself  fresh  and  pleasant 
through  it  all;  but  who  besides  you  ever  did?" 

"  I  hope  I  am  fresh,"  said  Sir  Raffle ;  "  and 
as  for  pleasantness,  I  will  leave  that  for  you  to 
determine." 

"There  can  be  but  one  opinion,"  said  Mrs. 
Thorne. 

The  conversation  had  strayed  away  from  John 
Eames,  and  Lily  was  disappointed.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  her  when  people  talked  of  him  in  her 
hearing,  and  as  a  question  or  two  had  been 
asked  about  him,  making  him  the  hero  of  the 
moment,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  being 
robbed  of  his  due  when  the  little  amenities  be- 
tween I\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Harold  Smith  and  Sir 
Raffle  banished  his  name  from  the  circle.  No- 
thing more,  however,  was  said  of  him  at  dinner, 
and  I  fear  that  he  would  have  been  altogetlier 
forgotten  throughout  the  evening  had  not  Lily 
herself  referred — not  to  him,  which  she  could 
not  possibly  have  been  induced  to  do — but  to 
the  subject  of  his  journey.  "  I  wonder  whether 
poor  Mr.  Crawley  will  be  found  guilty?"  she 
said  to  Sir  Raffle  up  in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  am  afraid  he  will;  I  am  afraid  he  will," 
said  Sir  Raffle  ;  "  and  I  fear,  my  dear  Miss  Dale, 
that  I  must  go  further  than  that.  I  fear  I  must 
express  an  opinion  that  he  is  guilty." 

"  Nothing  will  ever  make  mc  think  so,"  said 
Lily. 

"  Ladies  are  always  tender-hearted,"  said  Sir 
Raffle,  "and  especially  young  ladies — and  es- 
pecially pretty  young  ladies.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  such  should  be  your  opinion.  But  you  see. 
Miss  Dale,  a  man  of  business  has  to  look  at 
these  things  in  a  business  light.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  where  did  he  get  the  check  ?  He  is 
bound  to  be  explicit  in  answering  tliat  before 
any  body  can  acquit  him." 

"That  is  just  what  Mr.  Eames  has  gone 
abroad  to  learn." 

"  It  is  very  well  for  Eames  to  go  abroad — 
though,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  whether 
I  should  not  have  given  him  different  advice  if 
I  had  known  how  much  I  was  to  be  tormented 
by  his  absence.  The  thing  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened at  a  more  unfortunate  time — the  IMinistry 
going  out,  and  every  thing.  But,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, it  is  all  very  well  for  him  to  do  what  he  can. 
He  is  related  to  them,  and  is  bound  to  save  the 
honor  of  his  relations  if  it  be  possible.  I  like 
him  for  going.  I  always  liked  him.  As  I  said 
to  my  friend  De  Guest,  '  That  young  man  will 
make  his  way.'  And  I  rather  fancy  that  the 
chance  word  which  I  spoke  then  to  my  valued 
old  friend  was  not  thrown  away  in  Eames's  fa- 
vor. But,  my  dear  Miss  Dale,  where  did  Mr. 
Crawley  get  that  check  ?  That's  wliat  I  want 
to  know.  If  you  can  tell  me  that,  then  I  can 
tell  you  whether  or  no  he  will  be  acquitted." 

Lily  did  not  feel  a  strong  prepossession  in  fa- 


236 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


vor  of  Sir  Raffle,  in  spite  of  Iiis  praise  of  John 
Eanicd.  The  harsh  voice  of  the  man  annoyed 
licr,  and  his  egotism  oiloiuled  her.  Wlien,  much 
later  in  tlie  evening,  his  character  came  on  for 
iliscnssion  between  lierself  and  IMrs.  Thome  and 
Emily  Dunstable,  she  liad  not  a  word  to  say  in 
his  favor.  But  still  she  had  been  pleased  to 
meet  him,  because  he  was  the  man  with  whom 
Johnny's  life  was  most  specially  concerned.  I 
think  that  a  portion  of  her  dislike  to  him  arose 
from  the  fact  that  in  continuing  the  conversa- 
tion he  did  not  revert  to  his  i)rivatc  secretary, 
but  preferred  to  regale  her  with  stories  of  his 
own  doings  in  wonderful  cases  which  had  j)ar- 
taken  of  interest  similar  to  that  which  now  at- 
tached itself  to  JMr.  Crawley's  case.  He  had 
known  a  man  who  had  stolen  a  hundred  ])ounds, 
and  had  never  been  found  out ;  and  another 
man  who  had  been  arrested  for  stealing  two- 
nnd-si\])enfe,  which  was  found  afterward  stick- 
ing to  a  bit  of  butter  at  the  bottom  of  a  plate. 
Mrs.  Thorne  had  heard  all  this,  and  had  an- 
swered him,  "Dear  me,  Sir  Raillc,"  she  had 
said,  "what  a  great  many  thieves  you  have  had 
among  your  acipiaintance !"  Tliis  had  rather 
disconcerted  him,  and  then  there  had  been  no 
more  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley. 

It  had  been  arranged  on  this  morning  that 
]\Ir.  Dale  should  return  to  Allington  and  leave 
Lily  with  Mrs.  Thorne.  Some  special  need  of 
his  presence  at  home,  real  or  assumed,  had 
arisen,  and  he  had  declared  that  he  must  shorten 
his  stay  in  London  by  about  half  the  intended 
period.  The  need  would  not  have  been  so  jiress- 
ing,  probably,  had  he  not  felt  that  Lily  would 
be  more  comfortable  with  Mrs.  Thorne  than  in 
his  lodgings  in  Sackville  Street.  Lily  liad  at 
first  declared  that  she  would  return  with  him, 
but  every  body  had  protested  against  this.  Em- 
ily Dunstable  had  protested  against  it  very 
stoutly;  Mrs.  Dale  herself  had  protested  against 
it  by  letter  ;  and  Mrs.  Thome's  protest  had  been 
quite  imperious  in  its  nature.  "Indeed,  my 
dear,  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I'm  sure 
your  mother  wouldn't  wish  it.  I  look  upon  it 
as  quite  essential  that  you  and  Emily  should 
learn  to  know  each  other."  "  But  we  do  know 
each  other ;  don't  we,  Emily  ?"  said  Lily.  "  Not 
quke  well  yet,"  said  Emily.  Then  Lily  had 
laughed,  and  so  tlie  matter  was  settled.  And 
now,  on  this  present  occasion,  Mr.  Dale  was  at 
Mrs.  Thome's  house  for  the  last  time.  His  con- 
science had  been  perplexed  about  Lily's  horse, 
and  if  any  thing  was  to  be  said  it  must  be  said 
now.  The  subject  was  very  disagreeable  to  him, 
and  he  was  angry  with  Bernard  because  Ber- 
nard had  declined  to  manage  it  for  him  after 
his  own  fashion.  But  he  had  told  himself  so 
often  that  any  thing  was  better  than  a  pecimiary 
obligation  that  he  was  determined  to  speak  his 
mind  to  Mrs.  Thorne,  and  to  beg  her  to  allow 
him  to  have  his  way.  So  he  waited  till  the 
Harold  Smiths  were  gone,  and  Sir  Raffle  Baf- 
fle, and  then,  when  Lily  was  apart  with  Emily 
— for  Bernard  Dale  had  left  them — he  found 
himself  at  last  alone  with  Mrs.  Thorne. 


"I  can't  be  too  much  obliged  to  you,"  he 
said,  "for  your  kindness  to  my  girl." 

"  Oh  laws,  that's  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne. 
"We  look  on  her  as  one  of  us  now." 

"I'm  sure  she  is  grateful — very  grateful; 
and  so  am  I.  She  and  Bernard  h.avc  been 
brought  up  so  much  together  that  it  is  very  de- 
sirable that  she  should  be  not  unknown  to  Ber- 
nard's wife." 

"  E.xactly— that's  just  Avhat  I  mean.  Blood's 
thicker  than  water;  isn't  it?  Emily's  child,  if 
she  has  one,  will  be  Lily's  cousin." 

"Her  first-cousin  once  removed,"  said  the 
squire,  who  was  accurate  in  these  matters.  Then 
he  drew  himself  up  in  his  scat  and  compressed 
his  lips  together,  and  jirepared  himself  for  his 
task.  It  was  very  disagreeable.  Nothing,  he 
thought,  could  be  more  disagreeable.  "  I  have 
a  little  thing  to  sjicak  about,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  which  I  !ioi)e  will  not  offend  you." 

"About  Lily?" 

"  Yes  ;  about  Lily." 

"  I'm  not  very  easily  offended,  and  I  don't 
know  how  Icould  possibly  beoffeiidcdabonther." 

"I'm  an  old-fashioned  man,  Mrs.  Thorne, 
and  don't  know  much  about  tlie  ways  of  the 
world.  I  have  always  been  down  in  the  coun- 
try, and  maybe  I  have  prejudices.  You  won't 
refuse  to  humor  one  of  them,  I  hope?" 

"  You're  beginning  to  frighten  me,  Mr.  Dale ; 
what  is  it  ?" 

"About  Lily's  horse." 

"Lily's  horse!  "What  about  her  horse ?  I 
hope  he's  not  vicious?" 

"  She  is  liding  eveiy  day  with  your  niece," 
said  the  squire,  thinking  it  best  to  stick  to  his 
own  point. 

"It  will  do  her  all  the  good  in  the  world," 
said  Mrs.  Thorne. 

"Very  likely.  I  don't  doubt  it.  I  do  not 
in  the  least  disapprove  her  riding.     But — " 

"But  what,  Mr.  Dale?" 

"  I  should  be  so  much  obliged  if  I  might  bo 
allowed  to  pay  the  livery-stable  keeper's  bill." 

"  Oh,  laws  a'  niercy !" 

"I  dare  say  it  may  sound  odd,  but  as  I  have 
a  fancy  about  it  I'm  sure  you'll  gratify  me." 

"Of  coarse  I  will.  I'll  remember  it.  I'll 
make  it  all  right  with  Bernard.  Bernard  and 
I  have  no  end  of  accounts — or  shall  have  before 
long — and  we'll  make  an  item  of  it.  Then  you 
can  arrange  with  Bernard  afterward." 

Mr.  Dale  as  he  got  up  to  go  away  felt  that  he 
was  beaten,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  cany 
the  battle  any  further  on  that  occasion.  He 
could  not  take  out  his  purse  and  put  down  the 
cost  of  the  horse  on  the  table.  "I  will  then 
speak  to  my  nephew  about  it,"  he  said,  very 
gravely,  as  he  went  away.  And  he  did  speak 
to  his  nephew  about  it,  and  even  wrote  to  him 
more  than  once.  But  it  was  all  to  no  purpose. 
Mr.  Potts  eould  not  be  induced  to  give  a  sepa- 
rate bill,  and — so  said  Bernard — swore  at  last 
that  he  would  furnish  no  account  to  any  body 
for  horses  that  went  to  Mrs.  Thome's  door  ex- 
cept to  Mrs.  Thorne  herself. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


237 


That  night  Lily  took  leave  of  lier  uncle  and 
rcmaincil  at  Mrs.  Tliornc's  house.  As  tilings 
were  now  arranged  siie  would,  no  doubt,  he  in 
London  when  John  Eamcs  returned.  If  he 
should  find  her  in  town — and  she  told  herself 
that  if  she  was  in  town  he  certainly'  would  find 
her — he  would,  doubtless,  repeat  to  her  tlie  offer 
he  iiad  so  often  made  before.  She  never  ven- 
tured to  tell  herself  that  she  doubted  as  to  the 
answer  to  be  made  to  him.  The  two  letters 
were  written  in  the  book,  and  must  remain  there. 
But  she  felt  that  she  would  have  had  more  coui'- 
age  for  persistency  down  at  Allington  than  she 
would  be  able  to  summon  to  her  assistance  up 
in  London.  She  knew  she  would  be  weak 
should  she  be  found  by  him  alone  in  Mrs. 
Thome's  drawing-room.  It  would  be  better  for 
her  to  make  some  excuse  and  go  home.  She 
was  resolved  that  she  would  not  become  his 
wife.  She  could  not  extricate  herself  from  the 
dominion  of  a  feeling  which  she  believed  to  be 
love  for  another  man.  She  had  given  a  solemn 
promise  both  to  her  mother  and  to  John  Eames 
that  she  would  not  marry  that  otiicr  man  ;  but 
in  doing  so  she  had  made  a  solemn  promise  to 
herself  that  she  would  not  marry  John  Eames. 
She  had  sworn  it,  and  would  keep  her  oath. 
And  yet  she  regretted  it  I  In  writing  home  to 
her  mother  the  next  day  she  told  Mrs.  Dale^ 
that  all  the  world  was  speaking  well  of  JohnI 
Eames — that  John  had  won  for  himself  a  repu-' 
tation  of  his  own,  and  was  known  far  and  wide 
to  be  a  noble  fellow.  She  could  not  keep  her- 
self from  praising  John  Eames,  though  she  knew 
that  such  praise  might,  and  would,  be  used 
against  her  at  some  future  time.  "Though  I 
can  not  love  him  I  will  give  him  his  due,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

"I  wish  you  would  make  up  your  mind  to 
have  an  '  it'  for  yourself,"  Emily  Dunstable  said 
to  her  again  that  night;  "a  nice  'it,'  so  that  I 
could  make  a  friend,  perhaps  a  brother,  of  Iiim." 

"I  shall  never  have  an  '  it,'  if  I  live  to  be  a 
hundred,"  said  Lily  Dale. 


CHAPTER  LIIL 


ROTTEN    ROW. 


Lily  had  heard  nothing  as  to  the  difficulty 
about  her  horse,  and  could  therefore  enjoy  her 
exercise  without  the  drawback  of  feeling  that 
her  uncle  was  subjected  to  an  annoyance.  She 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  out  every  day  with 
Bernard  and  Emily  Dunstable,  and  their  party 
was  generally  joined  by  others  who  would  meet 
tliem  at  Mrs.  Thome's  house.  For  Mrs.  Thorne 
was  a  very  hospitable  woman,  and  there  were 
many  who  liked  well  enough  to  go  to  her  house. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  there  would  be  a  great 
congregation  of  horses  before  the  door — some- 
times as  many  as  a  dozen;  and  then  tlie  caval- 
cade would  go  off  into  the  Park,  and  there  it 
would  become  scattered.  As  neither  Bernard 
nor  Miss  Dunstable  were  unconscionable  lovers, 


Lily  in  these  scatterings  did  not  often  find  her- 
self neglected  or  lost.  Her  cousin  would  gen- 
erally remain  with  her,  and  as  in  those  days 
she  had  no  "it"  of  her  own  she  was  well  pleased 
that  he  should  do  so. 

But  it  so  happened  that  on  a  certain  after- 
noon she  found  herself  riding  in  Rotten  Row 
alone  with  a  certain  stout  gentleman  whom  she 
constantly  met  at  Mrs.  Thome's  house.  His 
name  was  Onesiphorus  Dunn,  and  he  was  usu- 
ally called  Siph  by  his  intimate  friends.  It  had 
seemed  to  Lily  that  every  body  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  Mr.  Dunn's,  and  she  was  in  daily  fear 
lest  she  should  make  a  mistake  and  call  him  Siph 
herself.  Had  she  done  so  it  would  not  have 
mattered  in  the  least.  Mr.  Dunn,  had  he  ob- 
served it  at  all,  would  neither  have  been  flattered 
nor  angry.  A  great  many  young  ladies  about 
London  did  call  him  Sijih,  and  to  him  it  was 
quite  natural  that  they  should  do  so.  He  was 
an  Irishman,  living  on  the  best  of  every  thing 
in  the  world,  with  apparently  no  fortune  of  his 
own,  and  certainly  never  earning  any  thing. 
Every  body  liked  him,  and  it  was  admitted  on 
all  sides  that  there  was  no  safer  friend  in  the 
world,  either  for  young  ladies  or  young  men, 
than  Mr.  Onesiphorus  Dunn.  He  did  not  bor- 
row money,  and  he  did  not  encroach.  He  did 
like  being  asked  out  to  dinner,  and  he  did  think 
that  they  to  whom  he  gave  the  light  of  his  coun- 
tenance in  town  owed  him  the  return  of  a  week's 
run  in  the  country.  He  neither  shot,  nor  hunt- 
ed, nor  fished,  nor  read,  and  yet  he  was  never 
in  the  way  in  any  house.  He  did  play  billiards, 
and  whist,  and  croquet — very  badly.  He  was 
a  good  judge  of  wine,  and  would  occasionally 
condescend  to  look  after  the  bottling  of  it  on  be- 
half of  some  very  intimate  friend.  He  was  a 
great  friend  of  Mrs.  Thome's,  with  whom  he 
always  spent  ten  days  in  the  autumn  at  Clialdi- 
cotes. 


238 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


Bernard  and  Emily  were  not  insatiable  lovers,  j 
but  nevertheless  Mrs.  Thorne  had  thought  it 
))roper  to  provide  a  fourth  in  the  riding-])artic's, 
and  had  put  ]Mr.  Dunn  upon  this  duty.     "  Don't 
bother  yourself  about  it,  Siph,"  she  had  said; 
"onlv  if  those  lovers  sliould  go  ofFjiliilandcring  ^ 
out  of  sight  our  little  country  lassie  might  find  j 
herself  to  be  nowhere  in  the  I'ark."     Siph  had  , 
promised  to  make  himself  useful,  and  had  done  i 
so.     There  had  generally  been  so  large  a  num- 
ber in  their  jiarty  that  the  work  imposed  on  Mr.  | 
Dunn  had  been  very  light.     Lily  had  never, 
found  out  that  he  had  been  espeeially  consigned  ^ 
to  her  as  her  own  cavalier,  but  had  seen  quite 
enough  of  him  to  be  aware  that  he  was  a  pleas- 
ant companion.     To  her,  thinking,  as  she  ever 
was  thinking,  about  Johnny  Eames,  Siph  was 
much  more  agreeable  than  might  have  been  a 
younger  man  who  would  have  endeavored  to 
make  her  think  about  himself. 

Thus  when  she  found  herself  riding  alone  in 
Rotten  Row  with  Siph  Dunn  she  was  neither 
disconcerted  nor  displeased.  He  had  been  talk- 
ing to  her  about  Lord  Do  Guest  whom  he  had 
known — for  Siph  knew  every  body — and  Lily 
had  begun  to  wonder  whether  he  knew  John 
Eames.  She  would  have  liked  to  hear  the 
opinion  of  such  a  man  about  John  Eames. 
She  was  making  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
say  something  about  the  Crawley  matter — not 
intending  of  course  to  mention  John  Eames's 
name — when  suddenly  hei"  tongue  was  paralyzed 
and  she  could  not  speak.  At  that  moment 
they  were  standing  near  a  corner,  where  a  turn- 
ing path  made  an  angle  in  the  iron  rails,  ISIr. 
Dunn  having  proposed  that  they  should  wait 
there  for  a  few  minutes  before  they  returned 
home,  as  it  was  probable  that  Bernard  and  Miss 
Dunstable  might  come  up.  They  had  been  there 
for  some  five  or  ten  minutes,  and  Lily  had  asked 
her  first  question  about  the  Crawleys — inquiring 
of  Mr.  Dunn  whether  he  had  heard  of  a  terrible 
accusation  which  had  been  made  against  a  cler- 
gyman in  Barsetshire — when  on  a  sudden  her 
tongue  was  paralyzed.  As  they  were  standing, 
Lily's  horse  was  turned  toward  the  diverging 
path,  whereas  Mr.  Dunn  was  looking  the  other 
way,  toward  Achilles  and  Apsley  House.  Mr. 
Dunn  was  nearer  to  the  railings,  but  though  tliey 
were  thus  looking  different  ways  they  were  so 
placed  that  each  could  see  the  face  of  the  other. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  coming  slowly  toward  her 
along  the  diverging  path  and  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  another  man,  she  saw — Adolphus  Cros- 
bie. 

She  had  never  seen  him  since  a  day  on  which 
she  had  parted  from  him  with  many  kisses — 
with  warm,  pressing,  eager  kisses — of  which 
she  had  been  nowhat  ashamed.  He  had  then 
been  to  her  almost  as  her  husband.  She  had 
trusted  him  entirely,  and  had  thrown  herself 
into  his  arms  with  a  full  reliance.  There  is 
often  much  of  reticence  on  the  part  of  a  woman 
toward  a  man  to  whom  she  is  engaged,  something 
also  of  shamefacedness  occasionally.  There  ex- 
ists a  shadow  of  doubt,  at  least  of  that  hesitation 


which  shows  that  in  s])ite  of  vows  the  womaa 
knows  that  a  change  may  come,  and  that  pro- 
vision for  sucli  possible  steps  backward  should 
always  be  witliin  her  reach.  But  Lily  had  cast 
all  such  caution  to  the  winds.  She  had  given 
herself  to  the  man  entirely,  and  had  determined 
that  she  would  sink  or  swim,  stand  or  fall,  live 
or  die,  by  him  and  by  his  truth.  He  had  been 
as  false  as  hell.  She  had  been  in  his  arms, 
clinging  to  him,  kissing  him,  swearing  that  her 
only  pleasure  in  the  world  was  to  be  with  him 
— with  him  her  treasure,  her  promised  husband  ; 
and  within  a  month,  a  week,  he  had  been  false 
to  hcv.  There  had  come  upon  her  crushing 
tidings,  and  she  had  for  days  wondered  at  her- 
self that  they  had  not  killed  her.  But  she  had 
lived,  and  had  forgiven  him.  She  had  still 
loved  him,  and  had  received  new  offers  from 
him,  which  had  been  answered  as  the  reader 
knows.  But  she  had  never  seen  him  since  the 
day  on  which  she  had  parted  from  him  at  Al- 
lington  without  a  doubt  as  to  his  faith.  Now 
he  was  before  her,  walking  on  the  foot-path,  al- 
most within  reach  of  her  whip. 

He  did  not  recognize  her,  but  as  he  passed  on 
he  did  recognize  Mr.  Oncsiphorus  Dunn,  and 
stopped  to  speak  to  him.  Or  it  might  have 
been  that  Crosbie's  friend  Fowler  Pratt  stopped 
with  this  special  object — for  Siph  Dunn  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  Fowler  Pratt's.  Crosbie  and 
Siph  were  also  acquainted,  but  in  those  days 
Ciosbie  did  not  care  much  for  stopping  his 
friends  in  the  Park  or  elsewhere.  lie  had  be- 
come moody  and  discontented,  and  was  generally 
seen  going  about  the  world  alone.  On  this 
special  occasion  he  was  having  a  little  s])ecial 
conversation  about  money  with  his  very  old 
friend  Fowler  Pratt. 

"What,  Siph,  is  this  you?  You're  always 
on  horseback  now,"'  said  Fowler  Pratt. 

"Well,  yes;  I  have  gone  in  a  good  deal  for 
cavalry  work  this  last  month.  I've  been  lucky 
enough  to  have  a  young  lady  to  ride  with  me." 
This  he  said  in  a  whisper,  which  the  distance 
of  Lily  justified.  "How  d'ye  do,  Crosbie? 
One  doesn't  often  see  you  on  horseback,  or  on 
foot  either." 

"I've  something  to  do  besides  going  to  look 
or  to  be  looked  at,"  said  Crosbie.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  Lily's  side-face,  and 
jfecognized  her.  Had  he  seen  her  before  he  had 
been  stopped  on  his  way  I  think  he  would  have 
passed  on,  endeavoring  to  escape  observation. 
But  as  it  was,  his  feet  had  been  arrested  before 
he  knew  of  her  close  vicinity,  and  now  it  would 
seem  that  he  was  afraid  of  her,  and  was  flying 
from  her,  were  he  at  once  to  walk  off,  leaving 
his  friend  behind  him.  And  he  knew  that  she 
had  seen  him,  and  had  recognized  him,  and  was 
now  suffering  from  his  presence.  He  could  not 
but  ])erceive  that  it  was  so  from  the  fixedness 
of  her  face,  and  from  the  constrained  manner  in 
wliich  she  gazed  before  her.  His  friend  Fowler 
Pratt  had  never  seen  Miss  Dale,  though  he  knew 
very  much  of  her  history.  Siph  Dunn  knew  no- 
thing of  the  history  of  Crosbie  and  his  love,  and 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 


239 


was  unaware  that  he  and  Lily  Iiad  ever  seen 
each  other.  Tliere  was  thus  no  help  near  her 
to  extricate  her  from  her  Uifticulty. 

"When  a  man  has  any  work  to  do  in  the 
world,"  said  Siph,  "he  always  boasts  of  it  to 
his  acquaintance,  and  curses  his  luck  to  himself. 
I  have  nothing  to  do,  and  can  go  about  to  sec 
and  to  be  seen ;  and  I  must  own  that  I  like  it." 

"  Especially  the  being  seen — eh,  Sij)!!?"  said 
Fowler  Pratt.  "I  also  have  nothing  on  earth 
to  do,  and  I  come  here  eveiy  day  because  it  is 
as  easy  to  do  tliat  as  to  go  any  where  else." 

Crosbic  was  still  looking  at  Lily.  He  could 
not  help  himself.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  off  her.  He  could  see  that  she  was  as 
pretty  as  ever,  tliat  she  was  but  very  little  altered. 
She  was,  in  truth,  somewliat  stouter  than  in  the 
old  days,  but  of  that  he  took  no  special  notice. 
Should  he  speak  to  her?  Should  he  try  to 
catch  her  eye,  and  then  raise  his  hat?  Should 
he  go  up  to  her  horse's  head  boldly,  and  ask  her 
to  let  bj^-gones  be  by-gones  ?  He  had  an  idea 
that  of  all  courses  which  he  could  pursue  that 
was  the  one  which  she  would  approve  the  best 
— which  would  be  most  efficacious  for  liira,  if 
with  her  any  thing  from  him  might  have  any 
efficacy.  But  he  could  not  do  it.  He  did  not 
know  what  words  lie  might  best  use.  Would  it 
become  liim  humbly  to  sue  to  her  for  pardon  ?  Or 
should  he  strive  to  express  his  unaltered  love  by 
some  tone  of  his  voice  ?  Or  should  he  simply 
ask  her  after  her  health  ?  He  made  one  step  to- 
ward her,  and  he  saw  that  the  face  became  more 
rigid  and  more  fi.xed  than  before,  and  then  he 
desisted.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  simply 
hateful  to  her.  He  thought  that  he  could  per- 
ceive that  there  was  no  tenderness  mixed  with 
her  unabated  anger. 

At  this  moment  Bernard  Dale  and  Emily 
came  close  upon  him,  and  Bernard  saw  him  at 
once.  It  was  through  Bernard  that  Lily  and 
Crosbie  had  come  to  know  each  other.  He  and 
Bernard  Dale  had  been  fast  friends  in  old  times/ 
and  had,  of  course,  been  bitter  enemies  sinqe 
the  day  of  Crosbie's  treachery.  They  had  nev- 
er spoken  since,  though  they  had  often  seen 
each  other,  and  Dale  was  not  at  all  disposed  to 
speak  to  him  now.  The  moment  that  he  rec- 
ognized Crosbie  he  looked  across  to  his  cousin. 
For  an  instant  an  idea  had  flashed  across  him 
that  he  was  there  by  her  permission — with  her 
assent ;  but  it  required  no  second  glance  to 
show  him  that  this  was  not  the  case.  "Dunn," 
he  said,  "I  think  we  will  ride  on  ;"  and  he  put 
his  horse  into  a  trot.  Siph,  whose  ear  was  very 
accurate,  and  wlio  knew  at  once  that  something 
was  wrong,  trotted  on  with  him,  and  Lily,  of 
course,  was  not  left  behind.  "  Is  there  any 
thing  the  matter?"  said  Emily  to  her  lover. 

"  Notliing  specially  the  matter,"  he  replied; 
"but  you  were  standing  in  company  with  the 
greatest  blackguard  that  ever  lived,  and  I 
thought  we  had  better  change  our  ground." 

"Bernard  I''  said  Lily,  flashing  on  him  with 
all  the  fire  which  her  eyes  could  command. 
Then  she  remembered  that  she  could  not  rep- 


rimand liim  fur  the  offense  of  such  abuse  in 
such  a  conqjany ;  so  she  reined  in  her  horse 
and  fell  a  weeping. 

Siph  Dunn,  with  liis  wicked  cleverness,  knew 
the .  whole  story  at  once,  remembering  that  he 
had  once  heard  something  of  Crosbie  having  be- 
haved very  ill  to  some  one  before  he  married 
Lady  Alexandrina  De  Courcy.  He  stopped  his 
horse  also,  falling  a  little  behind  Lily,  so  that  he 
might  not  be  supposed  to  have  seen  her  tears, 
and  began  to  hum  a  tune.  Emily  also,  though 
not  wickedly  clever,  understood  something  of  it. 
"  If  Bernard  says  any  thing  to  make  you  angry 
I  will  scold  him,"  she  said.  Then  the  two  girls 
rode  on  together  in  front,  while  Bernard  fell  back 
with  Siph  Dunn. 

"Pratt,"  said  Crosbie,  putting  his  hand  on 
his  friend's  shoulder  as  soon  as  the  party  had 
ridden  out  of  hearing,  "do  you  see  that  girl 
there  in  the  dark  blue  habit?" 

"  What,  the  one  nearest  to  the  path?" 

' '  Yes ;  the  one  nearest  to  the  path.  That  is 
Lily  Dale." 

"Lily  Dale!"  said  Fowler  Pratt. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  Lily  Dale." 

"Did  you  speak  to  her?"  Pratt  asked. 

"No;  she  gave  me  no  chance.  She  was 
there  but  a  moment.  But  it  was  herself.  It 
seems  so  odd  to  me  that  I  should  have  been 
thus  so  near  her  again."  If  there  was  any  man 
to  whom  Crosbie  could  have  spoken  freely  about 
Lily  Dale  it  was  this  man.  Fowler  Pratt.  Pratt 
was  the  oldest  friend  he  had  in  the  world,  and 
it  had  happened  that  when  he  first  woke  to  the 
misery  that  he  had  prepared  for  himself  in  throw- 
ing over  Lily  and  betrothing  himself  to  his  late 
wife,  Pratt  had  been  the  first  person  to  whom 
ho  had  communicated  his  sorrow.  Not  that  he 
had  ever  been  really  open  in  his  communica- 
tions. It  is  not  given  to  such  men  as  Crosbie 
to  speak  openly  of  themselves  to  their  friends. 
Nor,  indeed,  was  Fowler  Pratt  one  who  was 
fond  of  listening  to  such  tales.  He  had  no  such 
tales  to  tell  of  himself,  and  he  thought  that  men 
and  women  should  go  through  the  world  quiet- 
ly, not  subjecting  themselves  or  their  acquaint- 
ances to  anxieties  and  emotions  from  peculiar 
conduct.  But  he  was  conscientious,  and  cour- 
ageous also  as  well  as  prudent,  and  he  had  dared 
to  tell  Crosbie  that  he  was  behaving  very  badly. 
He  had  spoken  his  mind  plainly,  and  had  then 
given  all  the  assistance  in  his  power. 

He  paused  a  moment  before  he  replied,  weigh- 
ing, like  a  prudent  man,  the  force  of  the  words 
he  was  about  to  utter.  "It  is  much  better  as 
it  is,"  he  said.  "It  is  much  better  that  you 
should  be  as  strangers  for  the  future." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  at  all,"  said  Crosbie.  They 
were  both  leaning  on  the  rails,  and  so  they  re- 
mained for  the  next  twenty  minutes.  "I  do 
not  see  that  at  all." 

"  I  feel  sure  of  it.  "What  could  come  of  any 
renewed  intercourse — even  if  she  woidd  allow 
it?" 

"  I  might  make  her  my  wife." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  you  would  be  hap- 


240 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


py  with  her,  or  she  with  you,  after  what  has 
passed  ?" 

"  I  do  think  so." 

"I  do  not.  It  might  be  possible  that  she 
shouhl  bring  herself  to  marry  you.  Women  de- 
light to  forgive  injuries.  They  like  the  excite- 
ment of  generosity.  But  she  could  never  for- 
get that  you  had  had  a  former  wife,  or  the  cir- 
cumstances under  wliich  you  were  maiTied. 
And  as  for  yourself,  you  would  regret  it  after 
the  first  month.  How  could  you  ever  s])cak  to 
her  of  your  love  without  sjieakiug  also  of  your 
shame?  If  a  man  docs  marry  he  should  at 
least  be  able  to  hold  up  his  head  before  his 
■wife." 

This  was  very  severe,  but  Crosbie  showed  no 
anger.  "I  think  I  should  do  so,"  he  said — 
"after  a  while." 

"And  then,  about  money?  Of  course  you 
would  have  to  tell  her  every  thing." 

"Every  thing — of  course." 

"It  is  like  enough  that  slie  might  not  regard 
that — except  that  she  would  feel  that  if  you 
could  not  afford  to  marry  her  when  you  were 
unembarrassed,  you  can  hardly  alford  to  do  so 
when  you  are  over  head  and  cars  in  debt." 

"  She  has  money  now." 

"After  all  that  lias  come  and  gone  you  would 
hardly  seek  Lily  Dale  because  you  want  to  mar- 
ry a  fortune." 

"  You  arc  too  hard  on  me,  Pratt.  You  know 
that  my  only  reason  for  seeking  her  is  that  I 
love  her." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  hard.  But  I  have  a, 
Tcry  strong  opinion  tliat  tlie  quarrels  of  lovers, 
when  they  are  of  so  very  serious  a  nature,  are  a 
bad  basis  for  the  renewal  of  love.  Come,  let 
us  go  and  dress  for  dinner.  I  am  going  to  dine 
with  Mrs.  Thorne,  the  millionaire,  wlio  married 
a  country  doctor,  and  who  used  to  be  called 
Miss  Dunstable." 

"I  never  dine  out  any  where  now,"  said 
Crosbie.  And  then  tlicy  walked  out  of  the  Park 
together.  Neither  of  them,  of  course,  knew 
that  Lily  Dale  was  staying  at  the  house  at  which 
Fowler  Pratt  was  going  to  dine. 

Lily,  as  she  rode  home,  did  not  speak  a  word. 
She  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  talk, 
but  she  could  not  even  make  a  beginning.  She 
heard  Bernard  and  Siph  Dunn  cliatting  behind 
her,  and  hoped  that  they  would  continue  to  do 
so  till  she  was  safe  within  the  house.  They  all 
used  her  well,  for  no  one  tried  to  draw  her  into 
conversation.  Once  Emily  said  to  her,  "Shall 
we  trot  a  little,  Lily?"  And  tlien  they  had 
moved  on  quickly,  and  the  misery  was  soon  over. 
As  soon  as  siie  was  up  stairs  in  the  house  slie 
got  Emily  by  herself,  and  explained  all  the 
mystery  in  a  word  or  two.  "I  fear  I  have 
made  a  fool  of  myself.  That  was  the  man  to 
whom  I  was  once  engaged."  "What,  Mr. 
Crosbie  ?"  said  Emily,  who  had  heard  the  whole 
story  from  Bernard.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Crosbie  ;  pray, 
do  not  say  a  word  of  it  to  any  body — not  even 
to  your  aunt.  I  am  better  now,  but  I  was  such 
a  fool.     No,  dear;  I  won't  go  into  the  drawing- 


room.  I'll  go  up  stairs,  and  come  down  ready 
for  dinner." 

Wjien  slie  was  alone  she  sat  down  in  her  hab- 
it, and  declared  to  herself  that  she  certainly 
would  never  become  the  wife  of  Mr.  Crosbie. 
I  do  not  know  why  she  should  make  such  a  dec- 
laration. She  had  promised  her  mother  and 
John  Eamcs  that  she  would  not  do  so,  and  that 
jiromise  would  certainly  have  bouiul  her  witii- 
out  any  further  resolutions  on  her  own  part. 
But  to  tell  tlie  truth,  the  vision  of  the  man  had 
disenchanted  her.  When  last  she  had  seen  him 
Ifc  had  been  as  it  were  a  god  to  her ;  and 
though,  since  that  day,  his  conduct  to  her  had 
neon  as  ungodlike  as  it  well  might  be,  still  the 
memory  of  tlie  outward  signs  of  his  divinity  had 
remained  with  her.  It  is  difficult  to  exj)lain 
how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  the  glimpse  which 
she  had  had  of  him  should  have  altered  so  much 
within  her  mind  ;  why  she  should  so  suddenly 
have  come  to  regard  him  in  an  altered  li.i;ht. 
It  was  not  simply  that  he  looked  to  be  older, 
and  because  his  face  was  care-worn.  It  was  not 
only  tliat  he  had  lost  that  look  of  an  Apollo  which 
Lily  had  once  in  her  mirth  attributed  to  him. 
I  tliink  it  was  cliiefly  that  she  herself  was  older, 
and  could  no  longer  see  a  god  in  such  a  man. 
Slie  had  never  regarded  Jolin  Eames  .'\s  being 
gifted  with  divinity,  and  had  therefore  always 
been  making  comjjarisons  to  his  discredit.  Any 
such  comparison  now  would  tend  quite  the  oth- 
er way.  Nevertheless  she  would  adhere  to  the 
two  letters  in  her  book.  Since  she  had  seen 
Mr.  Crosbie  she  was  altogether  out  of  love  with 
the  prospect  of  matrimony. 

She  was  in  the  room  when  Mr.  Pratt  was  an- 
nounced, and  she  at  once  recognized  him  as 
the  man  who  had  been  with  Crosbie.  And  when, 
/some  minutes  afterward,  Siph  Dunn  came  into 
the  room,  she  could  see  that  in  their  greeting 
allusion  was  made  to  tlie  scene  in  the  Park. 
But  still  it  was  probable  that  this  man  would 
not  recognize  her,  and,  if  he  did  so,  what  would 
it  matter  ?  There  were  twenty  people  to  sit 
down  to  dinner,  and  the  chances  were  that  she 
would  not  be  called  upon  to  exchange  a  word 
with  Mr.  Pratt.  Slie  had  now  recovered  herself, 
and  could  speak  freely  to  her  friend  Si))li,  and 
when  Siph  came  and  stood  near  her  she  thanked 
him  graciously  for  his  escort  in  the  Park.  '■  If 
it  wasn't  for  you,  Mr.  Dunn,  I  really  think  I 
should  not  get  any  riding  at  all.  Bernard  and 
^liss  Dunstable  have  only  one  thing  to  tiiink 
al)out,  and  certainly  I  am  not  that  one  thing." 
She  thought  it  probable  that  if  she  could  keep 
Siph  close  to  her,  Mrs.  Thorne,  who  always 
managed  those  things  herself,  might  apportion 
her  out  to  be  led  to  dinner  by  her  good-natured 
friend.  But  the  fates  were  averse.  The  time 
l)ad  now  come,  and  Lily  was  waiting  her  turn. 
^'  Mr.  Fowler  Pratt,  let  me  introduce  you  to 
Miss  Lily  Dale,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne.  Lily  could 
perceive  that  Mr.  Pratt  was  startled.  The  si^n 
he  gave  was  the  least  possible  sign  in  the  world, 
but  still  it  sufficed  for  Lily  to  perceive  it.  She 
put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  walked  down 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


241 


with  him  to  the  dining-room  without  giving 
him  tlie  slightest  cause  to  suppose  that  slie  knew 
who  he  was. 

"I  think  I  saw  you  in  the  Park  riding?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  I  was  there  ;  we  go  nearly  every  day." 

"I  never  ride;  I  was  walking." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  people  don't  go 
there  to  walk,  but  to  stand  still,"  said  Lilj*.  "I 
can  not  understand  how  so  many  people  can 
bear  to  loiter  about  in  that  way — leaning  on  the 
rails  and  doing  nothing." 

"  It  is  about  as  good  as  the  riding,  and  costs 
less  money.  That  is  all  that  can  be  said  for  it. 
Do  you  live  chiefly  in  town  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no ;  I  live  altogether  in  the  coun- 
try. I'm  only  up  here  because  a  cousin  is  going 
to  be  married." 

"Captain  Dale,  you  mean — to  Miss  Dun- 
stable ?"  said  Fowler  Pratt. 

"When  they  have  been  joined  together  in 
holy  matrimony  I  shall  go  down  to  the  country, 
and  never,  I  suppose,  come  up  to  London  again." 

"  You  do  not  like  London  ?" 

"Not  as  a  residence,  I  think,"  said  Lil}'. 
"But  of  course  one's  likings  and  dislikings  on 
such  a  matter  depend  on  circumstances.  I  live 
with  my  mother,  and  all  my  relatives  live  near 
us.  Of  course  I  like  the  country  best,  because 
they  are  there." 

"  Young  ladies  so  often  have  a  different  way 
of  looking  at  this  subject.  I  shouldn't  w^onder 
if  Miss  Dunstable's  views  about  it  were  altogeth- 
er of  another  sort.  Young  ladies  generally  ex- 
pect to  be  taken  away  from  their  fathers  and 
mothers,  and  uncles  and  aunts." 

"  But  you  see  I  expect  to  be  left  with  mine," 
said  Lily.  After  that  she  turned  as  much  away 
from  Mr.  Fowler  Pratt  as  she  could,  having  tak- 
en an  aversion  to  him.  What  business  had  he 
to  talk  to  her  about  being  taken  away  from  her 
luncles  and  aunts  ?  She  had  seen  him  with  Mr. 
Crosbie,  and  it  might  be  possible  that  they  were 
intimate  friends.  It  might  be  that  Mr.  Pratt 
was  asking  questions  in  Mr.  Crosbie's  interest. 
Let  that  be  as  it  might,  she  would  answer  no 
more  questions  from  him  further  than  ordinary 
good-breeding  should  require  of  her. 

"  She  is  a  nice  girl,  certainly,"  said  Fowler 
Pratt  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home,  "and  I 
have  no  doubt  would  make  a  good,  ordinary, 
everyday  wife.  But  she  is  not  such  a  paragon 
that  a  man  should  condescend  to  grovel  in  the 
dirt  for  her." 

That  night  Lily  told  Emily  Dunstable  the 
whole  of  Mr.  Crosbie's  history  as  far  as  she 
knew  it,  and  also  explained  her  new  aversion 
to  Mr.  Fowler  Pratt.  "They  are  very  great 
friends,"  said  Emily.  "Bernard  has  told  me 
so;  and  you  may  be  sure  that  Mr.  Pratt  knew 
the  whole  history  before  he  came  here.  I  am 
*so  sorry  that  my  aunt  asked  him." 

"It  does  not  signify  in  the  least,"  said  Li)}-. 
"Even  if  I  were  to  meet  Mr.  Crosbie  I  don't 
think  I  should  make  such  a  fool  of  myself  again. 
As  it  is,  I  can  only  hope  he  did  not  see  it." 


"I  am  sure  he  did  not." 

Tlien  there  was  a  pause,  during  which  Lily 
sat  with  her  face  resting  on  both  her  Iiand.s. 
"It  is  wonderful  how  much  he  is  altered,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"Think  how  much  he  has  suffered." 

"I  suppose  I  am  altered  as  much,  only  I  do 
not  see  it  in  myself." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  were,  but  I  don't 
tliink  you  can  have  changed  much.  You  no 
doubt  have  suffered  too,  but  not  as  he  has  done." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  I  have  done  very  well.  I 
think  I'll  go  to  bed  now.  The  riding  makes  me 
so  sleepy." 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

THE    CLERICAL   COMMISSION. 

It  was  at  last  arranged  that  the  five  clergy- 
men selected  should  meet  at  Dr.  Tcmjjcst's 
house  in  Silverbridge  to  make  inquiry  and  re- 
port to  the  bishop  whether  the  circumstances 
connected  with  the  check  for  twenty  pounds 
were  of  such  a  nature  as  to  make  it  incumbent 
on  him  to  institute  proceedings  against  Mr. 
Crawley  in  the  Court  of  Arches.  Dr.  Tempest 
had  acted  upon  the  letter  which  he  had  received 
from  the  bishop,  exactly  as  though  there  had 
been  no  meeting  at  the  palace,  no  quarrel  to  the 
death  between  him  and  Mrs.  Proudie.  He  was 
a  prudent  man,  gifted  with  the  great  power  of 
holding  his  tongue,  and  had  not  spoken  a  word, 
even  to  his  wife,  of  what  had  occurred.  After 
such  a  victory  our  old  friend  the  archdeacon 
would  have  blown  his  own  trumpet  loudly 
among  his  friends.  Plumstead  would  have 
heard  of  it  instantly,  and  the  pnsan  would  have 
been  sung  out  in  the  neighboring  parishes  of 
Eiderdown,  Stogpingum,  and  St.  Ewolds.  The 
high-street  of  Barchester  would  have  known  of 
it,  and  the  very  bedesmen  in  Hiram's  Hospital 
would  have  told  among  themselves  the  terrible 
discomfiture  of  the  bishop  and  his  lady.  But 
Dr.  Tempest  spoke  no  w'ord  of  it  to  any  body. 
He  wrote  letters  to  the  two  clergymen  named 
by  tlie  bishop,  and  himself  selected  two  others 
out  of  his  own  rural  deanery,  and  suggested  to 
them  all  a  day  at  which  a  preliminary  meeting 
should  be  held  at  his  own  house.  The  two  who 
were  invited  by  him  were  Mr.  Oriel,  the  rector 
of  Greshamsbury,  and  ^Ir.  Robarts,  the  vicar 
of  Framley.  They  all  assented  to  tlie  proposi- 
tion, and  on  the  day  named  assembled  them- 
selves at  Silverbridge. 

It  was  now  April,  and  the  judges  were  to 
come  into  Barchester  before  the  end  of  the 
month.  What  then  could  be  the  use  of  this 
ecclesiastical  inquiry  exactly  at  the  same  time? 
Men  and  women  declared  that  it  was  a  double 
prosecution,  and  that  a  double  prosecution  for 
the  same  offense  was  a  course  of  action  opposed 
to  the  feelings  and  traditions  of  the  country. 
Miss  Anne  Prcttyman  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
it  was  unconstitutional,  and  Mary  Walker  de- 


244 


THE  LAST  CimONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


that   Mr.  Crawley   lias   declined   to   take   the 
bishop's  advice." 

"Tliiit  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Thumble.  "He 
altogether  disregarded  tlie  bisliop." 

"  I  can  not  say  tliat  I  tliinii  he  was  wi"ong," 
said  Dr.  Tempest. 

"I  think  he  was  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Ko- 
barts. 

"A  bishop  in  almost  all  cases  is  entitled  to 
the  obedience  of  his  clergy,"  said  Mr.  Oriel. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  agree  witli  you,  Sir,"  said 
Mr.  Thumble. 

"  The  income  is  not  large,  and  I  suppose  that 
it  would  have  gone  with  tlie  duties,"  said  Mr. 
Quiverful.  "It  is  very  hard  for  a  man  with 
a  fomily  to  live  when  his  income  has  been 
stopped." 

"Bo  that  as  it  may,"  continued  the  doctor, 
"the  bishoi)  feels  that  it  may  be  his  duty  to  op- 
pose the  return  of  Mr.  Crawley  to  his  pulpit, 
and  tliat  he  can  oppose  it  in  no  otiier  way  than 
by  proceeding  against  Mr.  Crawley  under  the 
Clerical  Offenses  Act.  I  projjose,  therefore, 
that  we  should  invite  Mr.  Crawley  to  attend 
here — " 

"Mr.  Crawley  is  not  coming  here  to-day, 
then?"  said  Mr.  Robarts. 

"I  thought  it  useless  to  ask  for  his  attend- 
ance until  we  had  settled  on  our  course  of  ac- 
tion," said  Dr.  Tempest.  "  If  we  are  all  agreed, 
I  will  beg  him  to  come  here  on  this  day  week, 
when  we  will  meet  again  And  we  will  then 
■%  ask  him  whether  lie  will  submit  himself  to  the 
bisliop's  decision  in  the  event  of  the  jury  find- 
t  ing  him  guilt^^  If  he  should  decline  to  do  so, 
we  can  only  then  form  our  opinion  as  to  what 
will  be  the  bishop's  duty  by  reference  to  the 
facts  as  they  are  elicited  at  tlie  trial.  If  Mr. 
Crawley  should  choose  to  make  to  us  any  state- 
ment as  to  his  own  case,  of  course  we  shall  be 
willing  to  receive  it.  That  is  my  idea  of  what 
had  better  be  done ;  and  now,  if  any  gentleman 
has  any  other  proposition  to  make,  of  course  we 
shall  be  pleased  to  hear  him."  Dr.  Tempest, 
as  he  said  this,  looked  round  upon  his  compan- 
ions as  though  his  pleasure,  under  tiie  circum- 
stances suggested  by  himself,  would  be  A'cry 
doubtful. 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  can  do  any  thing  better," 
said  Mr.  Kobarts.  "  I  think  it  a  jiity,  however, 
that  any  steps  should  have  been  taken  by  the 
bishop  before  the  trial." 

"The  bishop  lias  been  placed  in  a  very  deli- 
cate position,"  said  Mr.  Thumble,  pleading  for 
his  patron. 

"I  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  del- 
icate,'" said  Robarts.  "I  think  his  duty  was 
very  clear,  to  avoid  interference  while  the  mat- 
ter is,  so  to  say,  before  the  judge." 

"  Noliody  has  any  thing  else  to  propose?" 
said  Dr.  Tempest.  "Then  I  will  write  to  Mr. 
Crawley,  and  you,  gentlemen,  will  perhaps  do 
me  the  honor  of  meeting  me  here  at  one  o'clock 
on  this  day  week."  Then  the  meeting  was  over, 
and  the  four  clergymen  having  shaken  hands 
with  Dr.  Tempest  in  the  hall,  all  promised  that 


they  would  return  on  that  day  week.  So  fai 
Dr.  Tempest  had  carried  his  point  exactly  as  h< 
might  have  done  had  the  four  gentlemen  beer 
represented  by  tlie  chairs  on  which  they  had  sat 

"I  slia'n't  come  again,  all  the  same,  unless  1 
know  where  I'm  to  get  my  expenses,"  said  Mr, 
Quiverful,  as  he  got  into  the  gig. 

' '  I  shall  come, "  said  Mr.  Tiiumble,  "because 
I  think  it  a  duty.  Of  course  it  is  a  hardsliip 
Mr.  Tiiumble  liked  the  idea  of  being  joined  with 
such  men  as  Dr.  Tempest,  and  Mr.  Oriel,  and 
Mr.  Robarts,  and  would  any  day  have  paid  th.e 
cxjiense  of  a  gig  from  Barchester  to  Silver- 
bridge  out  of  iiis  own  pocket,  for  the  sake  of 
sitting  Avith  such  bench-fellows  on  any  clerical 
iufpiiry. 

"  One's  first  duty  is  to  one's  wife  and  family,' 
said  Mr.  Quiverful. 

"  Well,  yes ;  in  a  way,  of  course,  that  is 
quite  true,  Mr.  Quiverful ;  and  when  we  know 
liow  very  inadequate  are  the  incomes  of  the 
working  clergy,  we  can  not  but  feel  ourselves  to 
be,  if  I  may  so  say,  put  upon,  when  we  have  tp 
defray  the  expenses  incidental  to  special  duties! 
out  of  our  own  pockets.  I  think,  you  know — I 
don't  mind  saying  this  to  you — that  the  palace 
should  have  provided  us  with  a  chaise  and  pair." 
This  was  ungrateful  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Thum- 
ble, who  had  been  permitted  to  ride  miles  upon 
miles  to  various  outlying  clerical  duties  upon 
the  bishop's  worn-out  cob.  "  You  see,"  contin- 
ued Mr.  Thumble,  "you  and  I  go  specially  to' 
represent  the  palace,  and  tlie  palace  ought  to 
remember  that.  I  think  tliere  ought  to  have 
been  a  chaise  and  pair;  I  do  indeed."  ' 

"I  don't  care  much  what  the  conveyance  is,"! 
said  Mr.  Quiverful ;  "but  I  certainly  shall  pay 
nothing  more  out  of  my  own  pocket — certainly 
I  sliall  not." 

"The  result  will  be  that  the  palace  will  be 
thrown  over  if  they  don't  take  care,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble.  "Tempest,  however,  seems  to  be! 
pretty  steady.  Tempest,  I  think,  is  steady.; 
You  see  he  is  getting  tired  of  parish  work,  andl 
would  like  to  go  into  the  close.  That's  whati 
he  is  looking  out  for.  Did  you  ever  see  such  ai 
fellow  as  that  Robarts — ^just  look  at  him — quite; 
indecent,  wasn't  he?  He  thinks  he  can  have* 
his  own  way  in  every  thing,  just  because  his  sis- 
ter married  a  lord.  I  do  hate  to  see  all  tliat 
meanness." 

Mark  Robarts  and  Caleb  Oriel  left  Silverbridge 
in  another  gig  by  the  same  road,  and  soon  pass- 
ed their  brethren,  as  Mr.  Robarts  was  in  the 
habit  of  driving  a  large,  quick-stepping  horse. 
The  last  remarks  were  being  made  as  the  dust 
from  the  vicar  of  Framley's  wheels  saluted  the 
faces  of  tlic  two  slower  clergymen.  !Mr.  Oriel 
had  promised  to  dine  and  sleep  at  Framley,  and 
therefore  returned  in  Mr.  Robarts's  gig. 

"Quite  unnecessary,  all  this  fuss;  doti't  you 
think  so?"  said  Mr.  Robarts. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  said  Mr.  Oriel.  "I 
can  understand  that  the  bishop  may  have  found' 
a  difficulty." 

' '  The  bishop,  indeed  I     The  bishop  doesn't' 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


24: 


care  two  straws  about  it.  It's  Mrs.  rroiulie ! 
Slie  has  put  her  finger  on  the  poor  man's  neck 
because  he  has  not  put  his  neck  beneath  licr 
feet;  and  now  she  thinks  she  can  crush  him — 
as  she  would  crush  you  or  me,  if  it  were  in  her 
power.  That's  about  tlie  long  and  short  of  the 
bishop's  solicitude." 

"You  are  very  hard  on  him,"  said  Mr.  Oriel. 

"I  know  him — and  am  not  at  all  hard  on 
him.  She  is  hard  upon  him  if  you  like.  Tem- 
pest is  fair.  He  is  very  fair,  and  as  long  as  no 
one  meddles  with  him  he  won't  do  amiss.  I 
can't  hold  my  tongue  always,  but  I  often  know 
it  is  better  that  I  should." 

Dr.  Tempest  said  not  a  word  to  any  one  on 
the  subject,  not  even  in  his  own  defense.  And 
yet  he  was  sorely  tempted.  On  tlie  very  day 
of  the  meeting  he  dined  at  Mr.  "Walker's  in  Sil- 
verbridge,  and  there  submitted  to  be  talked  at 
by  all  the  ladies  and  most  of  the  gentlemen  pres- 
ent, without  saying  a  word  in  his  own  defense. 
And  yet  a  word  or  two  would  have  been  so  easy 
and  so  conclusive. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Tempest,"  said  Mary  Walker,  "I 
am  so  sorry  that  you  liave  joined  the  bishop  !" 

"Are  you,  my  dear?"  said  he.  "It  is  gen- 
erally thought  well  that  a  parisli  clergyman 
should  agree  with  his  bishop." 

"But  you  know,  Dr.  Tempest,  that  you  don't 
agree  with  your  bishop  generally." 

"Then  it  is  the  more  fortunate  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  agree  with  him  on  this  occasion." 

Major  Grantly  was  present  at  the  dinner,  and 
ventured  to  ask  the  doftor  in  the  coarse  of  the 
evening  what  he  thought  would  be  done.  "I 
should  not  venture  to  ask  sucli  a  question,  Dr. 
Tempest,"  he  said,  "unless  I  had  the  strongest 
possible  reason  to  justify  my  anxiety." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  any  thing. 
Major  Grantly,"  said  the  doctor.  "  We  did  not 
even  see  Mr.  Crawley  to-day.  But  the  real 
truth  is  that  he  must  stand  or  fall  as  the  jury 
shall  find  him  guilty  or  not  guilty.  It  would 
be  the  same  in  any  profession.  Could  a  cap- 
tain in  the  army  hold  up  his  head  in  his  regi- 
ment after  he  had  been  tried  and  found  guilty 
of  stealing  twenty  pounds?" 

'■  I  don't  think  he  could,"  said  the  major. 

"Neither  can  a  clergyman,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Tlie  bishop  can  neither  make  him  nor  mar 
him.     It  is  the  jury  that  must  do  it." 


CHAPTER  LV. 


TR-VMLET    PARSONAGE, 


At  this  time  Grace  Crawley  was  at  Framley/ 
Parsonage.  Old  Lady  Lufton's  strategy  had' 
been  quite  intelligible,  but  some  people  said 
that  in  point  of  etiquette  and  judgment  and 
moral  conduct  it  was  indefensible.  Her  vicar, 
Mr.  Robarts,  had  been  selected  to  be  one  of  the 
clergymen  who  was  to  sit  in  ecclesiastical  judg- 
ment upon  Mr.  Crawley,  and  while  he  was  so 
sitting  Mr.  Crawley's  daughter  was  staying  in 


Mr.  Robarts's  house  as  a  visitor  witli  his  wife ! 
It  might  be  that  there  was  no  harm  in  tliis. 
Lady  Lufton,  when  the  apparent  iminojjriety 
was  pointed  out  to  her  by  no  less  a  ])erson  than 
Archdeacon  Grantly,  ridiculed  the  idea.  "i\Iy 
dear  Archdeacon,"  Lady  Lufton  had  said,  "  we 
all  know  tlie  bishop  to  be  such  a  fool  and  the 
bishop's  wife  to  be  such  a  knave,  that  we  can 
not  allow  ourselves  to  be  governed  in  this  mat- 
ter by  ordinary  rules.  Do  you  not  tiiink  that  it 
is  expedient  to  show  how  utterly  we  disregard 
his  judgment  and  her  malice  ?"  The  archdea- 
con had  hesitated  much  before  he  spoke  to  Lady 
Lufton,  whether  he  should  address  himself  to 
her  or  to  Mr.  Robarts — or  indeed  to  Mrs.  Ro- 
barts. But  he  had  become  aware  that  the  prop- 
osition as  to  the  visit  had  originated  with  Lady 
Lufton,  and  he  had  therefore  decided  on  speak- 
ing to  her.  He  had  not  condescended  to  say  a 
word  as  to  his  son,  nor  would  he  so  condescend. 
Nor  could  he  go  from  Lady  Lufton  to  Mr.  Ro- 
barts, having  once  failed  with  her  ladyship. 
Indeed,  in  giving  him  his  due,  we  must  ac- 
knowledge that  his  disapprobation  of  Lady  Luf- 
ton's strategy  arose  rather  from  his  true  convic- 
tion as  to  its  impropriety  than  from  any  fear 
lest  this  attention  paid  to  Miss  Crawley  should 
tend  to  bring  about  her  marriage  with  his  son. 
By  tills  time  he  hated  the  very  name  of  Craw- 
ley. He  hated  it  the  more  because  in  hating 
it  he  had  to  put  himself  for  the  time  on  the  same 
side  with  Mrs.  Proudie.  But  for  all  that  he 
would  not  condescend  to  any  unwortliy  mode  of 
fighting.  He  thought  it  wrong  that  the  young 
lady  should  be  invited  to  Framley  Parsonage  at 
this  moment,  and  he  said  so  to  the  person  who 
had,  as  he  thought,  in  truth,  given  the  invita- 
tion ;  but  he  would  not  allow  his  own  personal 
motives  to  induce  him  to  carry  on  the  argument 
with  Lady  Lufton.  "The  bishop  is  a  fool,"  he 
said,  "  and  the  bishop's  wife  is  a  knave.  Nev- 
thcless  I  would  not  have  had  the  young  lady 
over  to  Framley  at  this  moment.  If,  however, 
you  think  it  right,  and  Robarts  thinks  it  right, 
there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"Upon  my  word  wo  do,"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

I  am  induced  to  think  that  Mr.  Robarts  was 
not  quite  confident  of  the  expediency  of  what  he 
was  doing  by  the  way  in  which  he  mentioned 
to  Mr.  Oriel  the  fact  of  Miss  Crawley's  presence 
at  the  parsonage  as  he  drove  that  gentleman 
home  in  his  gig.  They  had  been  talking  about 
Mr.  Crawley,  when  he  suddenly  turned  himself 
rounil,  so  that  he  could  look  at  his  companion, 
and  said,  "  Miss  Crawley  is  staying  with  us  at 
the  parsonage  at  the  present  moment." 

"  What !  Mr.  Crawley's  daughter?"  said  Mr. 
Oriel,  showing  plainly  by  his  voice  that  the  ti- 
dings liad  much  surprised  him. 

"Yes;  ]Mr.  Crawley's  daughter." 

"  Oh  indeed !  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
on  those  terms  with  the  family." 

"We  have  known  them  for  the  last  seven  or 
eight  years,"  said  Mark  :  "  and  though  I  should 
be  giving  you  a  false  notion  if  I  wore  to  say  that 
I  myself  have  known  them  intimately — for  Craw- 


244 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET 

lias   declined    to   take    the 


that   Mr.  Crawley 
bishop's  advice." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Thumble.  "lie 
nltogether  disregarded  the  bisliop." 

"  I  can  not  say  that  I  think  he  was  wrong," 
said  Dr.  Tenij)est. 

"I  think  he  was  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Ko- 
barts. 

"A  bishop  in  almost  all  cases  is  entitled  to 
the  obedience  of  his  clergy,"  said  Mr.  Oriel. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  agree  with  you,  Sir,"  said 
Mr.  Thumble. 

"  The  income  is  not  large,  and  I  suppose  tliat 
it  would  have  gone  with  tlie  duties,"  said  Mr. 
Quiverful.  "It  is  very  hard  for  a  man  with 
a  fixmily  to  live  when  his  income  has  been 
stopjied." 

"Be  tliat  as  it  may,"  continued  tlie  doctor, 
"  the  bishop  feels  tliat  it  may  be  his  duty  to  op- 
pose the  return  of  INIr.  Crawley  to  his  pulpit, 
and  that  he  can  oppose  it  in  no  other  way  than 
by  jiroceeding  against  Mr.  Crawley  under  the 
Clerical  Offenses  Act.  I  propose,  therefore, 
that  we  should  invite  Mr.  Crawley  to  attend 
here — " 

"Mr,  Crawley  is  not  coming  here  to-day, 
then?"  said  Mr. Robarts. 

"I  thought  it  useless  to  ask  for  his  attend- 
ance until  we  had  settled  on  our  course  of  ac- 
tion," said  Dr.  Tempest.  "  If  we  are  all  agreed, 
I  will  beg  him  to  come  here  on  this  day  week, 
when  we  will  meet  again  And  we  will  then 
ask  him  whether  he  will  submit  himself  to  the 
bishop's  decision  in  the  event  of  the  jury  find- 
ing him  guilty.  If  he  should  decline  to  do  so, 
we  can  only  then  form  our  opinion  as  to  what 
will  be  the  bishop's  duty  by  reference  to  the 
facts  as  they  are  elicited  at  tlie  trial.  If  Mr. 
Crawley  should  choose  to  make  to  us  any  state- 
ment as  to  his  own  case,  of  course  we  shall  be 
willing  to  receive  it.  That  is  my  idea  of  what 
had  better  be  done ;  and  now,  if  any  gentleman 
has  any  other  proposition  to  make,  of  course  we 
shall  be  pleased  to  hear  him."  Dr.  Tempest, 
as  he  said  this,  looked  round  upon  his  compan- 
ions as  though  his  pleasure,  under  the  circum- 
stances suggested  by  himself,  would  be  very 
doubtful. 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  can  do  any  thing  better," 
said  Mr.  Robarts.     "  I  think  it  a  i)ity,  however, 


they  would  return  on  that  day  week.     So  far  ) 
Dr.  Tempest  had  carried  his  point  exactly  as  he 
might  have  done  had  the  four  gentlemen  been  ' 
represented  by  the  chairs  on  which  they  had  sat. 

"I  sha'n't  come  again,  all  the  same,  unless  I 
know  where  I'm  to  get  my  expenses,"  said  Mr. 
Quiverful,  as  he  got  into  the  gig. 

"I  shall  come,"  said  Mr.  Thumble,  "because 
I  think  it  a  duty.  Of  course  it  is  a  hardship." 
Mr.  Thumble  liked  the  idea  of  being  joined  with 
such  men  as  Dr.  Tempest,  and  Mr.  Oriel,  and 
Mr.  Robarts,  and  would  any  day  have  paid  the 
expense  of  a  gig  from  Barchester  to  Silver- 
bridge  out  of  his  own  pocket,  for  the  sake  of 
sitting  with  such  bench-fellows  on  any  clerical 
inquiry. 

"  One's  first  duty  is  to  one's  wife  and  family,"  1 
said  Mr.  Quiverful. 

"Well,  yes;  in  a  way,  of  course,  that  is  i 
quite  true,  Mr.  Quiverful ;  and  when  we  know  . 
how  very  inadequate  are  the  incomes  of  the 
working  clergy,  we  can  not  but  feel  ourselves  to  ' 
be,  if  I  may  so  say,  put  upon,  when  we  have  to 
defray  the  expenses  incidental  to  special  duties 
out  of  our  own  pockets.  I  think,  you  know — I 
don't  mind  saying  this  to  you — that  the  palace 
should  have  pi'ovided  us  with  a  chaise  and  paii." 
This  was  ungrateful  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Thum- 
ble, who  had  been  permitted  to  ride  miles  upon 
miles  to  various  outlying  clerical  duties  ujion 
the  bishop's  worn-out  cob.  "  You  see,"  contin- 
ued Mr.  Thumble,  "you  and  I  go  specially  to' 
represent  the  jialace,  and  the  palace  ought  to 
remember  that.  I  think  tliere  ought  to  have 
been  a  chaise  and  pair;  I  do  indeed." 

"I  don't  care  much  what  the  conveyance  is," 
said  Mr.  Quiverful ;  "but  I  certainly  shall  pay 
nothing  more  out  of  my  own  pocket — certainly 
I  shall  not." 

"The  result  will  be  that  the  palace  will  be 
thrown  over  if  they  don't  take  care,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble.  "Tempest,  however,  seems  to  be' 
pretty  steady.  Tempest,  I  think,  is  steady. 
You  sec  he  is  getting  tired  of  parish  work,  and 
would  like  to  go  into  the  close.  That's  what' 
he  is  looking  oat  for.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a' 
fellow  as  that  Robarts — ^just  look  at  him — quite' 
indecent,  wasn't  he?  He  thinks  he  can  have, 
his  own  way  in  every  thing,  just  because  his  sis- 
ter married  a  lord.     I  do  hate  to  see  all  iliat 


that  any  steps  should  have  been  taken  by  the  j  meanness." 

bishop  before  the  trial."  I      Mark  Robarts  and  Caleb  Oriel  left  Silverbridge 

"The  bishop  has  been  placed  in  a  very  deli-  '  in  another  gig  by  the  same  road,  and  soon  pass- 


cate  position,"  said  Mr.  Thumble,  pleading  for 
his  patron. 

"I  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  del- 
icate,'" said  Robarts.  "I  tliink  his  duty  was 
very  clear,  to  avoid  interference  while  the  mat- 
ter is,  so  to  say,  before  the  judge." 

"Nobody  has  any  thing  else  to  propose?" 
said  Dr.  Tempest.  "Then  I  will  write  to  Mr. 
Crawley,  and  you,  gentlemen,  will  perhaps  do 
me  the  honor  of  meeting  me  here  at  one  o'clock 


ed  their  brethren,  as  Mr.  Robarts  was  in  the 
habit  of  driving  a  large,  quick-stepping  horse. 
The  last  remarks  were  being  made  as  the  dust 
from  the  vicar  of  Framley's  wheels  saluted  the 
fiices  of  the  two  slower  clergymen.  Sir.  Oriel 
had  promised  to  dine  and  sleep  at  Framley,  and 
therefore  returned  in  Mr.  Robarts's  gig. 

"Quite  unnecessary,  all  this  fuss;  doh't  you 
think  so?"  said  Mr.  Robarts. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  said  Mr.  Oriel.     "I 


on  til  is  day  week."    Then  the  meeting  was  over,  ■  can  understand  that  the  bishop  may  have  found 

and  the  four  clergymen  having  shaken   hands  ]  a  difficulty." 

with  Dr.  Tempest  in  the  hall,  all  promised  that  i       "The  bishop,  indeed!     The  bishop  doesn't 


\l 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


2-tS 


i  care  two  straws  about  it.     It's  Mrs.  Proiulie ! 

!  She  has  put  her  finger  on  the  poor  man's  neck 

because  he  has  not  put  his  neck  bencatli  her 

1  feet ;  and  now  she  thinks  she  can  crush  Iiim — 

as  she  would  crush  you  or  me,  if  it  were  in  her 

I  power.     Tliat's  about  the  long  and  short  of  the 

bishop's  solicitude." 

"You  are  very  hard  on  him,"  said  Mr.  Oriel. 
"I  know  him — and  am  not  at  all  hard  on 
him.  She  is  hard  upon  him  if  you  like.  Tcm- 
,pest  is  fair.  lie  is  very  fair,  and  as  long  as  no 
!  one  meddles  with  him  he  won't  do  amiss.  I 
I  can't  hold  my  tongue  always,  but  I  often  know 
i  it  is  better  that  I  should." 

Dr.  Tempest  said  not  a  word  to  any  one  on 
the  subject,  not  even  in  his  own  defense.  And 
yet  he  was  sorely  tempted.  On  tlie  very  day 
i  of  the  meeting  lie  dined  at  Mr.  Walkers  in  Sil- 
jverliridge,  and  there  submitted  to  be  talked  at 
I  by  all  the  ladies  and  most  of  the  gentlemen  pres- 
'ent,  without  saying  a  word  in  his  own  dcfen.se. 
I  And  yet  a  word  or  two  would  have  been  so  easy 
and  so  conclusive. 

'     "Oh,  Dr.  Tempest,"  said  !\[ary  Walker,  "I 
am  so  sorry  that  you  have  joined  the  bisho]) !" 

■•  Are  you,  my  dear?"  said  he.  "It  is  gen- 
erally thought  well  that  a  parish  clergyman 
sIkmiIJ  agree  with  his  bishop." 

■■  But  you  know,  Dr.  Tempest,  that  you  don't 
a_'i.e  witli  your  bishop  generally." 

••Then  it  is  the  mt)re  fortunate  that  I  shall 
1)0  able  to  agree  with  him  on  this  occasion." 

^lajor  Grantly  was  present  at  the  dinner,  and 
ventured  to  ask  the  dor'tor  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  what  he  thought  would  be  done.  "I 
ishould  not  venture  to  ask  such  a  question,  Dr. 
Temiiest,"  he  said,  "unless  I  had  the  strongest 
[iLi-sil)le  reason  to  justify  my  anxiety." 

■  I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  any  thing, 
Majur  Grantly,"  said  the  doctor.      "  We  did  not 
jven   see  Mr.  Crawley  to-day.      But   the  real 
.trutli  is  that  he  must  stand  or  fall  as  the  jury 
jihall  find  him  guilty  or  not  guilt}'.      It  would 
le  the  same  in  any  profession.      Could  a  cap- 
liu  in  the  army  hold  up  his  head  in  his  regi- 
neiit  after  he  had  been  tried  and  found  guilty 
jf  stealing  twenty  pounds  ?" 
'•  I  don't  tliink  ho  could,"  said  tlie  major. 
"Neither  can  a  clergyman,"  said  tlie  doctor. 
'The  bishop  can  neither  make  him  nor  mar 
lini.     It  is  the  jury  that  must  do  it." 


CHAPTER  LV. 


FRAMLET    PARSONAGE. 


At  this  time  Grace  Crawley  was  at  Framley/ 
'arsonage.  Old  Lady  Lufton's  strategy  had'' 
leeii  quite  intelligible,  but  some  people  said 
liat  in  point  of  etiquette  and  judgment  and 
noral  conduct  it  was  indefensible.  Her  vicar, 
jVIr.  Robarts,  had  been  selected  to  be  one  of  the 
rlergymcn  who  was  to  sit  in  ecclesiastical  judg- 
nent  upon  Mr.  Crawley,  and  wliile  lie  was  so 
jitting  Mr.  Crawley's  daughter  was  staying  in 


Mr.  Robarts's  house  as  a  visitor  with  his  wife ! 
It  might  be  that  there  was  no  harm  in  this. 
Lady  Lufton,  when  tlie  apparent  impropriety 
was  j)ointed  out  to  her  by  no  less  a  ])erson  than 
Archdeacon  Grantly,  ridiculed  the  idea.  "  My 
dear  Archdeacon,"  Lady  Lufton  had  said,  "  we 
all  know  the  bishop  to  be  such  a  fool  and  tlie 
bishoi>'s  wife  to  be  sudi  a  knave,  tliat  we  can 
not  allow  ourselves  to  be  governed  in  this  mat- 
ter by  ordinary  rules.  Do  you  not  think  that  it 
is  exi)edient  to  show  how  utterly  we  disregard 
his  judgment  and  her  malice  ?"  The  archdea- 
con had  hesitated  much  before  he  spoke  to  Lady 
Lufton,  whether  he  should  address  himself  to 
lier  or  to  Mr.  Robarts — or  indeed  to  Mrs.  Ro- 
barts.  But  he  had  become  aware  that  the  prop- 
osition as  to  the  visit  had  originated  with  Lady 
Lufton,  and  he  had  therefore  decided  on  speak- 
ing to  her.  He  had  not  condescended  to  say  a 
word  as  to  his  son,  nor  would  he  so  condescend. 
Nor  could  he  go  from  Lady  Lufton  to  Mr.  Ro- 
barts, having  once  failed  with  her  ladyship. 
Indeed,  in  giving  him  his  due,  we  must  ac- 
knowledge that  his  disapprobation  of  Lady  Luf- 
ton's strategy  arose  rather  from  his  true  convic- 
tion as  to  its  impropriety  than  from  any  fear 
lest  this  attention  paid  to  JNIiss  Crawley  should 
tend  to  bring  about  her  marriage  with  his  son. 
By  this  time  he  hated  the  very  name  of  Craw- 
ley. He  hated  it  the  more  because  in  hating 
it  he  had  to  ])ut  himself  for  the  time  on  the  same 
side  with  Mrs.  Proudie.  But  for  all  that  he 
would  not  condescend  to  any  unwortliy  mode  of 
fighting.  He  tliought  it  wrong  that  the  young 
lady  should  be  invited  to  Framley  Pa/sonage  at 
this  moment,  and  he  said  so  to  the  person  wlio 
had,  as  he  thought,  in  truth,  given  the  invita- 
tion ;  but  he  would  not  allow  his  own  personal 
motives  to  induce  him  to  carry  on  the  argument 
with  Lady  Lufton.  ''Tlie  bishop  is  a  fool,"  he 
said,  "  and  the  bishop's  wife  is  a  knave.  Nev- 
theless  I  would  not  have  had  the  young  lady 
over  to  Framley  at  this  moment.  If,  however, 
you  think  it  right,  and  Robarts  thinks  it  riglit, 
there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"  Upon  my  word  we  do,"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

I  am  induced  to  think  that  Mr.  Robarts  was 
not  quite  confident  of  the  expediency  of  what  he 
was  doing  by  the  way  in  which  he  mentioned 
to  Mr.  Oriel  the  fact  of  Miss  Crawley's  presence 
at  the  parsonage  as  he  drove  that  gentleman 
home  in  his  gig.  They  had  been  talking  about 
Mr.  Crawley,  when  he  suddenly  turned  himself 
round,  so  that  he  could  look  at  his  companion, 
and  said,  "  Miss  Crawley  is  staying  with  us  at 
the  parsonage  at  the  present  moment." 

"  AVhat !  Mr.  Crawley's  daugliter?"  said  Mr. 
Oriel,  showing  plainly  by  his  voice  that  the  ti- 
dings had  much  surprised  him. 

"Yes;  INIr.  Crawley's  daughter." 

"  Oh  indeed !  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
on  those  terms  with  the  family." 

"We  have  known  tliem  for  the  last  seven  or 
eight  years,"  said  Mark  :  "  and  thougli  I  should 
be  giving  you  a  false  notion  if  I  were  to  s.ay  that 
I  myself  have  known  them  intimately — for  Craw- 


246 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ley  is  a  man  whom  it  is  quite  impossible  to  know 
intimately — yet  the  wonumkind  at  Franiley  have 
known  them.  My  sister  staid  with  them  over 
at  Ilopplestock  for  some  time." 

"What!  Lady  Lufton?" 

"  Yes  ;  my  sister  Lucy.  It  was  just  befoi'C 
her  marringe.  There  was  a  lot  of  trouble,  and 
the  Crawleys  were  all  ill,  and  she  went  to  nurse 
tliem.  And  then  the  old  lady  took  them  up, 
anil  altogether  tlierc  came  to  he  a  sort  of  feeling 
'  that  tlicy  were  to  he  regarded  as  friends.  They 
arc  always  in  trouble,  and  now  in  this  special 
trouble  the  women  between  them  have  thought 
it  best  to  have  the  girl  over  at  Framley.  Of 
course  I  liad  a  kind  of  feeling  about  this  com- 
mission ;  but  as  I  knew  that  it  would  make  no 
difference  with  me  I  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  put  my  veto  u])on  the  visit."  Mr.  t)riel  said 
nothing  further,  but  Mark  Kobarts  was  aware 
that  Mr.  Oriel  did  not  quite  approve  of  tlie  visit. 

That  morning  old  Lady  Ijufton  herself  had 
come  across  to  the  parsonage  with  the  express 
view  of  bidding  all  the  parsonage  party  to  come 
across  to  the  hall  to  dine.  "You  can  tell  Mr. 
Oriel,  Fanny,  with  Lucy's  compliments,  how  de- 
lighted she  will  be  to  see  him."  Old  Lady  Luf- 
ton always  spoke  of  her  daughter-in-law  as  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  "  If  you  think  he  is  par- 
ticular, you  know,  we  will  send  a  note  across." 
Mrs.  llobarts  said  that  slie  supposed  JMr.  Oriel 
would  not  be  particular,  but,  looking  at  Grace, 
made  some  faint  excuse.  "  You  must  come, 
my  dear,"  said  Lady  Lufton.  "Lucy  wishes  it 
particularly."  Mrs.  Robarts  did  not  know  how 
to  say  that  she  would  not  come  ;  and  so  the 
matter  stood — when  Mrs.  Robarts  was  called 
ujion  to  leave  tlie  room  for  a  moment,  and  Lady 
Lufton  and  Grace  were  left  alone. 

"Dear  Lady  Lufton,"  said  Grace,  getting  np 
suddenly  from  her  chair;  "will  you  do  me  a 
favor — a  great  favor?"  She  spoke  Avith  an 
energy  which  quite  surprised  the  old  lady,  and 
caused  her  almost  to  start  from  her  seat. 

"I  don't  like  making  promises, "  said  Lady 
Lufton  ;  "  but  any  thing  I  can  do  with  proprie- 
ty I  will." 

"  You  can  do  this.  Pray  let  me  stay  here  to- 
day. You  don't  imderstand  how  I  feel  about 
going  out  while  papa  is  in  this  way.  I  know 
how  kind  and  how  good  you  all  are  ;  and  when 
dear  Mrs.  Robarts  asked  me  here,  and  mamma 
said  that  I  had  better  come,  I  could  not  refuse. 
But  indeed,  indeed,  I  had  rather  not  go  out  to 
a  dinner-party." 

"It  is  not  a  party,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Lady 
Lufton,  with  the  kindest  voice  which  she  knew 
how  to  assume.  "And  you  must  remember 
that  my  danghter-in-law  regards  you  as  so  very 
old  a  friend  !  You  remember,  of  course,  when 
she  was  staying  over  at  Hogglestock  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do.     I  remember  it  well." 

"And  therefore  you  should  not  regard  it  as 
going  out.  There  will  be  nobody  there  but 
ourselves  and  the  people  from  tliis  house." 

"But  it  will  be  going  out,  Lady  Lufton  ;  and 
I  do  hope  you  will  let  me  stay  here.     You  can 


not  think  how  I  feel  it.     Of  course  I  can  not  go  ! 

without  something  like    dressing,  and — and 

and —  In  poor  i)apa's  state  I  feel  that  I  ought 
not  to  do  any  thing  that  looks  like  gayety.  I 
ought  never  to  forget  it — not  for  a  moment." 

There  was  a  tear  in  Lady  Lufton's  eye  as  she 
said :  "  My  dear,  you  sha'n't  come.  You  and 
Fanny  shall  stop  and  dine  here  by  yourselves. 
The  gentlemen  s^hall  come." 

"Do  let  Mrs.  Robarts  go,  please,"  said  Grace. 

"I  won't  do  any  thing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Lady  Lufton.  Then,  when  Mrs.  Robarts  re- 
turned to  the  room,  her  ladyship  explained  it 
all  in  two  words.  "While  you  have  been 
away,  my  dear,  Grace  has  begged  oil",  and  there- 
fore we  have  decided  that  INIr.  Oriel  and  Mr. 
Robarts  shall  come  without  you." 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Mrs.  Robarts,"  said  Gr.ace. 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !"  said  Lady  Lufton.  "Fanny 
and  I  have  known  each  otlier  quite  long  enough 
not  to  stand  on  any  compliments — haven't  we, 
my  dear?  I  must  get  home  now,  as  all  the 
morning  has  gone  by.  Fanny,  my  dear,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you."  Then  she  expressed  her 
opinion  of  Grace  Crawley  as  she  walked  across 
the  parsonage  garden  with  Mrs.  Robarts.  ' '  She 
is  a  very  nice  girl,  and  a  very  good  girl,  I  am 
sure,  and  she  shows  excellent  feeling.  What- 
ever happens  we  must  take  care  of  her.  And, 
Fanny,  haveyouobseived  howhandsomesheis?" 

"  We  think  her  very  pretty." 

"  She  is  more  than  pretty  when  she  has  a  lit- 
tle fire  in  her  eyes.  She  is  downright  hand- 
some— or  will  be  when  she  fills  out  a  little.  I 
tell  you  what,  my  dear  ;  she'll  make  havoc  with 
somebody  yet;  you  see  if  she  doesn't.  By- 
by.  Tell  the  two  gentlemen  to  be  up  by  seven 
punctually."  And  then  Lady  Lufton  went 
home. 

Grace  so  contrived  that  Mr.  Oriel  came  and 
went  without  seeing  her.  There  was  a  sepa- 
rate nursery  breakfast  at  the  parsonage,  and  by 
special  permission  Grace  was  allowed  to  have 
her  tea  and  bread  and  butter  on  the  next  morn- 
ing with  the  children.  "I  thought  you  told 
me  Miss  Crawley  was  here,"  said  Mr.  Oriel,  as  ' 
the  two  clergymen  stood  waiting  for  the  gig 
that  was  to  take  the  visitor  away  to  Barchcster. 

"So  she  is,"  said  Robarts;  "but  she  likes 
to  hide  herself,  because  of  her  father's  trouble. 
You  can't  blame  her." 

"No  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Oriel. 

"Poor  gill !  If  you  knew  her  you  would  not 
only  pity  her,  but  like  her." 

"  Is  she — what  you  call — ?" 

"  You  mean,  is  she  a  lady  ?" 

"Of  course  she  is  by  birth,  and  all  that," 
said  Mr.  Oriel,  apologizing  for  his  inquiry. 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  another  girl  in  the 
county  so  well  educated,"  said  Mr.  Robaits. 

"Indeed  !     I  had  no  idea  of  that." 

"And  we  think  her  a  great  beauty.  As  for 
manners,  I  never  saw  a  girl  with  a  pjrettier  way 
of  her  own." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Oriel.  "I  wish  she 
had  come  down  to  breakfast." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


247 


It  will  have  been  perceived  that  old  Lady 
Lufton  had  heard  nothing  of  Major  Grantly's 
offense  ;  that  she  had  no  knowledge  that  Grace 
had  already  made  havoc,  as  she  had  called  it — 
had,  in  truth,  made  very  sad  havoc  at  rium- 
stead.  She  did  not,  therefore,  think  much 
about  it  when  her  son  told  her  upon  her  re- 
turn home  from  the  parsonage  on  that  afternoon 
that  Major  Grantly  had  come  over  from  Cosby 
Lodge,  and  that  he  was  going  to  dine  and 
sleep  at  Framley  Court.  Some  slight  idea  of 
thankfulness  came  across  her  mind  that  she  had 
not  betrayed  Grace  Crawley  into  a  meeting  with 
a  stranger.  "I  asked  him  to  come  some  day 
before  we  went  up  to  town,"  said  his  lordship ; 
"and  I  am  glad  he  has  come  to-day,  as  two 
clergymen  to  one's  self  are,  at  any  rate,  one  too 
many."  So  Major  Grantly  dined  and  slept  at 
the  Court. 

But  Mrs.  Robarts  was  in  a  great  flurry  when 
she  was  told  of  this  by  her  husband  on  his  re- 
turn from  the  dinner.  Mrs.  Crawley  had  found 
an  opportunity  of  telling  the  story  of  Major 
Grantly's  love  to  Mrs.  Robarts  before  she  had 
sent  her  daughter  to  Framley,  knowing  that  tlie 
families  were  intimate,  and  thinking  it  right  that 
there  should  be  some  precaution. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  will  come  up  here," 
Mrs.  Robarts  had  said. 

"Probably  not,"  said  the  vicar.  "lie  said 
he  was  going  home  early." 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  come — for  Grace's  sake," 
said  Mrs.  Robarts.  She  hesitated  whether  she 
should  tell  her  husband.  She  always  did  tell 
him  every  thing.  But  on  this  occasion  she 
thought  she  had  no  right  to  do  so,  and  she  kept 
the  secret.  "  Don't  do  any  thing  to  bring  him 
up,  dear." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid.  He  won't  come," 
said  the  vicav.  On  the  following  morning,  as 
soon  as  ]\Ir.  Oriel  was  gone,  Mr.  Robarts  went 
out — about  his  parish  he  would  probably  have 
called  it;  but  in  half  an  hour  .he  might  have 
been  seen  strolling  about  the  Court  stable-yard 
with  Lord  Lufton.  "Where  is  Grantly  ?"  asked 
the  vicar.  "I  don't  know  where  he  is,"  said 
his  lordship.  "  He  has  sloped  off  somewhere." 
The  major  had  sloped  off  to  the  parsonage,  well 
knowing  in  what  nest  his  dove  was  lying  hid ; 
and  he  and  the  vicar  had  passed  each  other. 
The  major  had  gone  out  at  the  front  gate,  and 
tlie  vicar  had  gone  in  at  the  stable  entrance. 

Tlie  two  clergymen  had  hardly  taken  their 
departure  when  Major  Grantly  knocked  at  th^ 
imrsonage  door.  He  had  come  so  early  that 
JIis.  Robarts  had  taken  no  precautions — even 
had  there  been  any  precautions  which  she  would 
have  thought  it  right  to  take.  Grace  was  in 
the  act  of  coming  down  the  stairs,  not  having 
heard  tlie  knock  at  the  door,  and  thus  she  found 
her  lover  in  the  hall.  He  had  asked,  of  course^ 
for  Mrs.  Robarts,  and  thus  they  two  entered  the 
drawing-room  together.  They  had  not  had 
time  to  speak  when  the  servant  opened  the 
drawing-room  door  to  announce  the  visitor. 
There  had  been  no  word  spoken  between  Mrs. 


Robarts  and  Grace  about  Major  Grantly,  but 
the  mother  had  told  the  daughter  of  what  she 
had  said  to  ISIrs.  Robarts. 

"Grace,"  said  the  major,  "I  am  so  glad  to 
find  you!"  Then  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Robarts 
with  his  open  hand.  "You  won't  take  it  un- 
civil of  me  if  I  say  that  my  visit  is  not  entirely 
to  yourself?  I  think  I  may  take  upon  myself 
to  say  that  I  and  Miss  Crawley  are  old  friends. 
May  I  not?" 

Grace  could  not  answer  a  word.  "  Mrs.- 
Crawley  told  me  that  you  had  known  her  at 
Silverbridge,"  said  Mrs.  Robarts,  driven  to  say 
something,  but  feeling  that  she  w;as  blundering. 

"I  came  over  to  Framley  yesterday  because 
I  heard  that  she  was  here.  Am  I  wrong  to 
come  up  here  to  see  her?" 

"I  think  she  must  answer  that  for  herself, 
Major  Grantly." 

"Am  I  wrong,  Grace  ?"  Grace  thought  that 
lie  was  the  finest  gentleman  and  the  noblest  lover 
that  had  ever  shown  his  devotion  to  a  woman, 
and  was  stirred  by  a  mighty  resolve  that  if  it  ever 
should  be  in  her  power  to  reward  him  after  any 
fashion,  she  would  pour  out  tlie  reward  with  a 
very  full  hand  indeed.  But  what  was  she  to 
say  on  the  present  moment?  "Am  I  wrong, 
Grace?"  he  said,  repeating  his  question  with  so 
much  emphasis  that  she  was  positively  driven 
to  answer  it. 

"I  do  not  think  you  are  wrong  at  all.  How 
can  I  say  you  are  wrong  when  yon  are  so  good  ? 
If  I  could  be  your  servant  I  would  serve  you. 
But  I  can  be  nothing  to  you,  because  of  papa's 
disgrace.  Dear  Mrs.  Robarts,  I  can  not  stay. 
You  must  answer  him  for  me."  And  having 
thus  made  her  speech  she  escaped  from  the 
room. 

It  may  suffice  to  say  further  now  that  the 
major  did  not  see  Grace  again  during  that  visit 
at  Framley. 


CHAPTER  LVL 

THE  ARCHDEACON  GOES  TO  FEAMLET. 

By  some  of  those  unseen  telegraphic  wires 
which  carry  news  about  the  country  and  make 
no  charge  for  the  conveyance  Archdeacon  Grant- 
ly heard  that  his  son  the  major  was  at  Framley. 
Now  in  that  itself  there  would  have  been  no- 
thing singular.  There  had  been  for  years  much 
intimacy  between  the  Lufton  family  and  the 
Grantly  family — so  much  that  an  alliance  be- 
tween the  two  houses  had  once  been  planned, 
the  elders  having  considered  it  expedient  that 
the  young  lord  should  marry  that  Griselda  who 
had  since  mounted  higher  in  the  world  even 
than  the  elders  had  then  projected  for  licr. 
There  had  come  no  such  alliance  ;  but  tlic  in- 
timacy had  not  ceased,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  itself  surprising  in  the  fact  that  Major  Grant- 
ly should  be  staying  at  Framley  Court.  But 
the  archdeacon,  when  he  heard  the  news,  be- 
thought iiim  at  oiwe  of  Grace  Crawley.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  his  old  friend  Lady  Lufton — 


248 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Liuly  Liifton  wliom  lie  Iiad  known  and  trusted 
all  liis  life,  wlioni  lie  liad  ever  re;;arded  as  a  jiillar 
of"  the  cliurch  in  Barsetsliire — should  now  be  uii- 
trne  to  him  in  a  matter  so  closely  affecting  his 
interests?  Men  when  they  are  worried  by  fears 
and  teased  by  adverse  circumstances  become 
suspicions  of  those  on  whom  susjiicion  should 
never  rest.  It  was  hardly  possible,  the  arch- 
deacon thought,  that  Lady  Lufcon  should  treat 
liim  so  unworthily — but  the  circumstances  were 
strong  against  his  friend.  Lady  Lufton  had 
induced  Miss  Crawley  to  go  to  Framley,  much 
against  his  advice,  at  a  time  when  such  a  visit 
seemed  to  him  to  be  very  improjjer  ;  and  it  now 
appeared  that  his  son  was  to  be  there  at  the 
same  time — a  fact  of  which  Lady  Lufton  had 
made  no  mention  to  him  wliatcver.  Why  had 
not  Lady  Lufton  told  him  that  Henry  Grantly 
was  coming  to  Framley  Court?  Tiie  reader, 
whoso  interest  in  the  matter  will  be  less  keen 
than  was  the  archdeacon's,  will  know  very  well 
why  Lady  Lufton  had  said  nothing  about  the 
major's  visit.  The  reader  will  remember  that 
Lady  Lufton,  when  she  saw  tlie  archdeacon, 
was  as  ignorant  as  to  the  intended  visit  as  was 
the  archdeacon  himself.  But  the  archdeacon 
was  uneasy,  troubled,  and  sus])icious — and  he 
suspected  his  old  friend  unworthily. 

He  siioke  to  his  wife  about  it  within  a  very 
few  hours  of  the  arrival  of  tlie  tidings  by  those 
invisible  wires.  He  had  already  told  her  that 
Miss  Crawley  was  to  go  to  Framley  parsonage, 
and  that  he  thought  that  Mrs.  Kobarts  was 
wrong  to  receive  her  at  such  a  time.  "  It  is 
only  intended  for  good-nature,"  Mrs.  Grantly 
had  said.  "It  is  misplaced  good-nature  at 
the  jiresent  moment,"  the  archdeacon  had  re- 
plied. Mrs.  Grantly  had  not  thought  it  worth 
her  while  to  undertake  at  the  moment  any 
strong  defense  of  the  Framley  people.  She 
knew  well  how  odious  was  the  name  of  Crawley 
in  her  husband's  ears,  and  she  felt  that  the  less 


that  was  said  at  present  about  the  Crawleys  the 
better  for  the  peace  of  the  rectory  at  Plumstead. 
She  had  therefore  allowed  the  expression  of  his 
disa])proval  to  j)ass  unchallenged.  But  now  he  . 
came  ujion  her  with  a  more  bitter  grievance, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  argue  the  matter  with 
him. 

'•What  do  you  think  ?"  said  he;  "Henry  is 
at  Frandey." 

"  He  can  liardly  be  staying  there,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly,  "because  I  know  that  he  is  so  very 
busy  at  home."    The  business  at  liome  of  which 
the  major's  mother  was  speaking  was  his  pro- 
jected moving  from  Cosby  Lodge,  a   subject 
which  was  also  very  odious  to  the  archdeacon. 
He  did  not  wish  his  son  to  move  from  Cosby 
Lodge.     He  could  not  endure  the  idea  that  his 
son  should  be  known  throughout  the  county  to 
be  giving  up  a  residence  because  he  could  net 
afford  to  keep  it.     The  archdeacon  could  have 
aft'orded  to  keep  up  two  Cosby  Lodges  for  his 
son,  and  would  have  been  well  pleased  to  do  so, 
if  only  liis  son  would   not  misbehave  against 
him  so  shamefully!     He  could  not  bear  that 
his  son  should  be  punished,  o])enly,  before  the 
I  eyes  of  all  Barsetshire.      Indeed  he  did  not 
:  wish  that  his  son  should   be   punished  at  all. 
He  simply  desired  that  his  son  should  recognize 
his    fatlier's  power  to  inflict  punishment.      It 
would  be  henbane  to  Archdeacon  Grantly  to 
have  a  i)oor  son — a  son  living  at  Pan — among 
Frenchmen  ! — because  he  could  not  afford  to 
live  in   England.      Why  had  the  archdeacon 
been  careful  of  his   money,   adding  house  to 
house  and  field  to  field?     lie  himself  was  con- 
tented— so  he  told  himself — to  die  as  he  had 
lived  in  a  country  parsonage,  working  with  the 
collar  round  his  neck  up  to  the  day  of  his  death, 
if  God  would  allow  him  so  to  do.     He  was  am- 
bitious of  no  grandeur  for  himself.    So  he  would 
tell  himself — being  partly  oblivious  of  certain 
episodes  in  his  own  life.     All  his  wealth  had 
been  got  together  for  his  children.     He  desired 
that  his  sons  should  be  fitting  brothers  for  their 
august  sister.     And  now  the  son  who  was  near- 
est to  him,  whom  he  was  bent  upon  making  a, 
squire  in  his  own  county,  wanted  to  marry  the 
daughter   of  a   man   who    had   stolen    twenty 
pounds,  and  when  objection  was  made  to  so 
discreditable  a  connection,  replied  by  packing 
up  all  his  things  and  saying  that  he  would  go 
and  live — at  Pau  !     The  archdeacon  therefore 
did  not  like  to  hear  of  his  son  tei"g  ^"cry  busy 
at  home. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he's  busy  or  not,''  said 
the  archdeacon,  "but  I  tell  you  he  is  staying  at 
Framley." 

"From  whom  have  you  heard  it?'' 
"What  matter  does  that  make  if  it  is  so  ?     I 
heard  it  from  Flurry." 

"  Flurry  may  have  been  mistaken,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  likely.  Those  people  always 
know  about  sueli  things.  He  heard  it  from  the 
Framley  ket'iier.  I  don't  doubt  but  it's  true,  and 
I  think  that  it's  a  great  shame." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


249 


"A  great  sliamc  that  Henry  should  be  at 
Franiley !  lie  lias  been  there  two  or  three 
times  every  year  since  he  has  lived  in  the 
county." 

"It  is  a  great  shame  that  he  should  be  had 
over  there  just  at  the  time  when  that  girl  is  there 
also.  It  is  impossible  to  believe  tluit  such  a 
thing  is  an  accident." 

'*But,  archdeacon,  you  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  vou  think  that  Lady  Lufton  has  arranged 
it?"' 

"  I  don't  know  who  has  arranged  it.  Some- 
body has  arranged  it.  If  it  is  Robarts  that  is 
almost  worse.  One  could  forgive  a  woman  in 
such  a  matter  better  than  one  could  a  man." 

*'  Pshaw !"  Mrs.  Grantly's  temper  was  never 
bitter,  but  at  this  moment  it  was  not  sweetened 
by  her  husband's  very  uncivil  reference  to  her  sex. 
"  Tiie  whole  idea  is  nonsense,  and  you  should 
get  it  out  of  your  head." 

"Am  I  to  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  Henry 
wants  to  make  this  girl  his  wife,  and  that  the 
two  are  at  this  moment  at  Framley  together?" 
In  this  theiirchdeacon  was  wrong  as  to  his  facts. 
Major  Grantly  had  left  Framley  on  the  previous 
day,  having  staid  tliere  only  one  night.  "It 
is  coming  to  that  that  one  can  trust  no  one — 
no  one — literally  no  one."  Mrs.  Grantly  per- 
fectly understood  that  the  archdeacon,  in  the 
agony  of  the  moment,  intended  to  exclude  even 
herself  from  his  confidence  by  that  "  no  one ;" 
but  to  this  she  was  indifterent,  understanding 
accurately  when  his  words  should  be  accepted 
as  expressing  his  thoughts,  and  when  they 
should  be  supposed  to  express  only  his  anger. 

"The  probability  is  that  no  one  at  Lofton 
knew  any  thing  about  Henry's  partiality  for  Miss 
Crawley,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"I  tell  you  I  think  they  are  both  at  Framley 
together." 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  if  they  arc,  which  I 
doubt,  they  are  there  simply  by  an  accident. 
Besides,  what  does  it  m;itter  ?  If  they  choose 
to  marry  each  other  you  and  I  can  not  prevent 
them.  They  don't  want  any  assistance  from 
Lady  Lufton  or  any  body  else.  They  have 
simply  got  to  make  up  their  own  minds,  and 
then  no  one  can  hinder  them." 

"And,  therefore,  you  would  like  to  see  them 
brought  together." 

"  I  say  nothing  about  that,  archdeacon  ;  but 
I  do  say  that  we  must  take  these  things  as  they 
come.  What  can  we  do  ?  Henry  may  go  and 
stay  with  Lady  Lufton  if  he  pleases.  You  and 
I  can  not  prevent  him." 

After  this  the  archdeacon  walked  away,  and 
would  not  argue  the  matter  any  further  with  his 
wife  at  that  moment.  He  knew  very  well  that 
he  could  not  get  the  better  of  her,  and  was  apt 
at  such  moments  to  think  that  she  took  an  un- 
fair advantage  of  him  by  keeping  her  temper. 
But  he  could  not  get  out  of  his  head  the  idea 
that  perhaps  on  this  very  day  things  were  being 
arranged  between  his  son  and  Grace  Crawley  at 
Framley ;  and  he  resolved  that  he  himself  would 
go  over  and  see  wliat  might  be  done.    He  would, 

Q 


at  any  rate,  tell  all  liis  trouble  to  Lady  Lufton, 
and  beg  his  old  friend  to  assist  him.  lie  could 
not  think  that  such  a  one  as  he  had  always 
known  Lady  Lufton  to  bo  would  approve  of  a 
marriage  between  Henry  Grantly  and  Grace 
Crawley.  At  any  rate,  he  would  learn  the 
truth.  He  had  once  been  told  that  Grace  Craw- 
ley had  herself  refused  to  marry  his  son,  feeling 
that  she  would  do  wrong  to  inflict  so  great  an 
injury  upon  any  gentleman.  He  had  not  be- 
lieved in  so  great  a  virtue.  He  could  not  be- 
lieve in  it  now — now,  when  he  heard  that  Miss 
Crawley  and  his  son  were  staying  together  in 
the  same  parish.  Somebody  must  be  doing  him 
an  injury.  It  could  hardly  be  chance.  But 
his  presence  at  Framley  might  even  yet  have  a 
good  eftect,  and  he  would  at  least  learn  the 
truth.  So  he  had  himself  driven  to  Barchester, 
and  from  Barchester  he  took  post-horses  to 
Framley. 

As  he  came  near  to  the  village  he  grew  to  be 
somewhat  ashamed  of  himself,  or,  at  least,  nerv- 
ous as  to  the  mode  in  which  he  would  proceed. 
The  driver,  turning  round  to  him,  had  suggested 
that  he  supposed  he  was  to  drive  to  "My  lady's." 
This  injustice  to  Lord  Lufton,  to  whom  the 
house  belonged,  and  with  wliom  his  brother  lived 
as  a  guest,  was  very  common  in  the  county;  for 
old  Lady  Lufton  had  lived  at  Framley  Court 
through  her  son's  long  minority,  and  had  kept 
the  house  there  till  Ids  marriage ;  and  even 
since  his  marriage  she  had  been  recognized  as 
its  presiding  genius.  It  certainly  was  not  the 
fault  of  old  Lady  Lufton,  as  she  always  spoke 
of  every  thing  as  belonging  either  to  her  son  or 
to  her  daughter-in-law.  The  archdeacon  had 
been  in  doubt  whether  he  would  go  to  the  Court 
or  to  the  parsonage.  Could  he  have  done  ex- 
actly as  he  wished,  he  would  have  left  the  chaise 
and  walked  to  the  parsonage,  so  as  to  reach  it 
without  the  noise  and  fuss  incidental  to  a  postill- 
ion's arrival.  But  that  was  impossible.  He 
could  not  drop  into  Framley  as  though  he  had 
come  from  the  clouds,  and,  therefore,  he  told 
the  man  to  do  as  he  had  suggested.  "  To  my 
lady's,"  said  the  postillion.  The  archdeacon  as- 
sented, and  the  man,  with  loud  cracks  of  his 
whip,  and  with  a  spasmodic  gallop  along  the 
short  avenue,  took  the  archdeacon  up  to  the 
door  of  Lord  Lufton's  house.  He  asked  for 
Lord  Lufton  first,  putting  on  his  pleasantest 
smile,  so  that  the  servant  should  not  suspect  the 
purpose,  of  which  he  was  somewhat  ashamed. 
Was  Lord  Lufton  at  home  ?  Lord  Lufton  was 
not  at  home.  Lord  Lufton  had  gone  up  to  Lon- 
don that  morning,  intending  to  retui'n  the  day 
after  to-morrow ;  but  both  my  ladies  were  at 
home.  So  the  archdeacon  was  shown  into  the 
room  where  both  my  ladies  were  sitting — and 
with  them  he  found  Mrs.  Robarts.  Any  one 
who  had  become  acquainted  with  the  habits  of 
the  Framley  ladies  would  have  known  that  this 
might  very  probably  be  the  case.  The  archdea- 
con himself  was  as  well  aware  as  any  one  of  the 
modes  of  life  at  Framley.  The  lord's  wife  was 
the  parson's  sister,  and  the  parson's  wife  had 


50 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


from  her  infancy  been  tlie  petted  friend  of  the 
old  lady.  Of  course  they  all  lived  very  much 
together.  Of  course  Mrs.  Robarts  was  as  much 
at  home  in  tlic  drawing-room  of  Framlcy  Court 
as  she  was  in  her  own  drawing-room  at  the  par- 
sonage. Nevertheless  the  archdeacon  thought 
liimself  to  be  hardly  used  when  he  found  that 
Mrs.  Robarts  was  at  the  house. 

"  ^ly  dear  archdeacon,  who  ever  expected  to 
see  you  ?"  said  old  Lady  Lufton.  Then  the  two 
younger  women  greeted  him.  And  they  all 
smiled  on  him  pleasantly,  and  seemed  overjoyed 
to  see  him.  He  was,  in  truth,  a  great  favorite 
at  Framlcy,  and  each  of  the  three  was  glad  to 
welcome  him.  Tliey  believed  in  the  arcJidea- 
con  at  Framlcy,  and  felt  for  him  that  sort  of 
love  which  ladies  in  the  country  do  feel  for  their 
elderly  male  friends.  Tlierc  was  not  one  of 
the  three  who  would  not  have  taken  much  trou- 
ble to  get  any  thing  for  the  archdeacon  which 
they  had  thought  tlie  archdeacon  would  like. 
Even  old  Lady  Lufton  remembered  what  was 
his  favorite  soup,  and  always  took  care  that  he 
should  have  it  when  he  dined  at  the  Court. 
Young  Lady  Lufton  would  bring  his  tea  to  him 
as  he  sat  in  his  chair.  He  was  petted  in  the 
house,  was  allowed  to  poke  the  fire  if  he  pleased, 
and  called  the  servants  by  their  names,  as 
tliougli  ho  were  at  home.  He  was  compelled, 
therefore,  to  smile,  and  to  seem  pleased  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  after  he  had  eaten  his  lunch,  and 
had  declared  that  he  must  return  home  to  din- 
ner, that  tlie  dowager  gave  him  an  opportunity 
of  having  the  private  conversation  which  he  de- 
sired. 

"Can  I  iiave  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  you?" 
he  said  to  her,  whispering  into  her  car  as  they 
left  the  drawing-room  together.  So  she  led 
the  way  into  her  own  sitting-room,  telling  him, 
as  she  asked  him  to  be  seated,  that  she  had  sup- 
posed that  somctliing  special  must  have  brought 
him  over  to  Framley.  "I  should  have  asked 
you  to  come  up  here  even  if  you  had  not  spok- 
en," she  said. 

"Tiien  perhaps  you  know  what  has  brought 
me  over?"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Lady  Lufton.  "I 
have  not  an  idea.  But  I  did  not  flatter  myself 
that  you  would  come  so  far  on  a  morning  call 
merely  to  see  us  three  ladies.  I  hope  you  did 
not  want  to  see  Ludovic,  because  he  will  not  be 
back  till  to-morrow  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  you.  Lady  Lufton." 

"  Tiiat  is  lucky,  as  here  I  am.  You  may  be 
pretty  sure  to  find  me  here  any  day  in  the  year." 

After  tills  there  was  a  little  pause.  Tlie  arch- 
deacon hardly  knew  how  to  begin  his  story.  In 
the  first  jilace  he  was  in  doubt  whether  Lady 
Lufton  had  ever  heard  of  the  preposterous  matcli 
which  his  son  had  proposed  to  himself  to  make. 
In  his  anger  at  Plumstead  he  had  felt  sure  that 
she  knew  all  about  it,  and  tliat  she  was  assist- 
ing his  son.  But  tliis  belief  had  dwindled  as 
his  anger  had  dwindled  ;  and  as  the  chaise  had 
entered  the  parish  of  Framley  he  had  told  him- 
self that  it  was  quite  impossible  that  she  should 


know  any  thing  about  it.  Iler  manner  had  cer- 
tainly been  altogether  in  her  favor  since  he  had 
been  in  her  house.  There  had  been  nothing 
of  the  consciousness  of  guilt  in  her  demeanor. 
But,  nevertheless,  there  was  the  coincidence! 
How  had  it  come  to  pass  that  Grace  Crawley 
and  his  son  should  be  at  Framley  together?  It 
might,  indeed,  be  just  jiossible  that  Flurry  might 
have  been  wrong,  and  that  his  son  had  not  been 
tliere  at  all. 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Crawley  is  at  the  i)arson- 
age  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Oil  yes !  she  is  still  there,  and  will  remain 
there  I  should  tliink  for  the  next  ten  days." 

"  Oh  !  I  did  not  know,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
very  coldly. 

It  seemed  to  Lady  Lufton,  who  was  as  inno- 
cent as  an  unborn  babe  in  the  matter  of  the  pro- 
jected marriage,  that  her  old  friend  the  arch- 
deacon was  in  a  mind  to  persecute  the  Crawleys. 
He  had  on  a  former  occasion  taken  upon  him- 
self to  advise  that  Grace  Crawley  should  not  be 
entertained  at  Framlcy,  and  now  it  seemed  that 
he  had  come  all  tlie  way  from  Plumstead  to  say 
something  further  in  the  same  strain.  Lady 
Lufton,  if  he  had  any  thing  further  to  say  of 
that  kind,  would  listen  to  him  as  a  matter  of 
course.  She  would  listen  to  him  and  reply  to 
him  without  temper.  But  she  did  not  ajijirove 
of  it.  She  told  herself  silently  that  she  could 
not  approve  of  persecution  or  of  interference. 
She  therefore  drew  herself  up,  and  pursed  her 
mouth,  and  put  on  something  of  that  look  of  se- 
verity which  she  could  assume  v^ry  visibly  if  it 
so  pleased  her. 

"  Yes ;  she  is  still  there,  and  I  think  that  her 
visit  will  do  her  a  great  deal  of  good,"  said  Lady 
Lufton. 

"When  we  talk  of  doing  good  to  people," 
said  the  arclideacon,  "we  often  make  terrible 
mistakes.  It  so  often  happens  that  we  don't 
know  when  we  are  doing  good  and  when  we  are 
doing  harm." 

"That  is  true,  of  course.  Dr.  Grantly,  and 
must  be  so  necessarily,  as  our  wisdom  here  be- 
low is  so  very  limited.  But  I  should  think — as 
far  as  I  can  see,  that  is — that  the  kindness  which 
my  friend  Mrs.  Robarts  is  showing  to  this  young 
lady  must  bo  beneficial.  You  know,  archdea- 
con, I  explained  to  you  before  that  I  could  not 
quite  agree  with  you  in  what  you  said  as  to 
leaving  the.-e  people  alone  till  after  the  trial. 
I  thought  that  help  was  necessary  to  them  at 
once." 

Tlie  archdeacon  sighed  deeply.  He  ought  to 
have  been  somewhat  renovated  in  spirit  by  the 
tone  in  which  Lady  Lufton  spoke  to  him,  as  it 
conveyed  to  him  almost  an  absolute  conviction 
that  his  first  suspicion  was  incorrect.  But  any 
comfort  which  might  have  come  to  him  from 
this  source  was  marred  by  the  feeling  that  he 
must  announce  his  own  disgrace.  At  any  rate 
he  must  do  so,  unless  he  were  contented  to  go 
back  to  Plumstead  without  having  learned  any 
thing  by  his  journey.  He  changed  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  however,  and  asked  a  question — as  it, 


i 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


251 


might  be  altogether  on  a  different  subject.  "I 
heard  yesterday,"  he  said,  "that  Henry  was 
over  here." 

"  He  was  here  yesterday.  He  came  the  even- 
ing before,  and  dined  and  slept  here,  and  went, 
home  yesterday  morning."  / 

"  Was  Miss  Crawley  with  you  that  evening  ?" 

" Miss  Crawley  ?  No;  she  would  not  come. 
She  thinks  it  best  not  to  go  out  while  her  father 
is  in  his  present  unfortunate  position ;  and  she 
is  right." 

"She  is  quite  right  in  that,"  said  tlie  arcli- 
deacon  ;  and  then  he  paused  again.  He  thought 
that  it  would  be  best  fur  him  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  and  to  trust  to  Lady  Lufton's  sym- 
pathy. "Did  Henry  go  up  to  the  parsonage?" 
he  asked. 

But  still  Lady  Lufton  did  not  suspect  the 
truth.  "I  think  he  did,"  slie  replied,  with  an 
air  of  surprise.  "I  tliiuk'  I  heard  that  he  went 
np  there  to  call  on  Mrs.  Eobarts  after  break- 
fast." 

"No,  Lajdy  Lufton,  he  did  not  go  np  there 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Eobarts.  He  went  up  there  be- 
cause he  is  making  a  fool  of  himself  about  that 
Miss  Crawley.  That  is  the  truth.  Now  you 
•understand  it  all.  I  hope  tliat  Mrs.  Robarts 
does  not  know  it.  I  do  hope  for  iier  own  sake 
that  ilrs.  Robarts  does  not  know  it." 

The  archdeacon  certainly  liad  no  longer  any 
doubt  as  to  Lady  Lufton's  innocence  when  he 
looked  at  her  face  as  she  heard  these  tidings. 
She  had  predicted  that  Grace  Crawley  would 
"make  liavof,"  and  could  not,  therefore,  be  al- 
together surprised  at  the  idea  that  some  gentle- 
man should  have  fallen  in  love  with  her ;  but 
she  had  never  supposed  that  the  havoc  might  be 
made  so  early  in  her  days,  or  on  so  great  a  quar- 
ry. "You  don't  meau  to  tell  me  that  Henry 
Grantly  is  in  love  with  Grace  Craviley?"  she 
replied. 

"I  mean  to  say  that  he  says  he  is." 

"Dear,  dear,  dear!      I'm  sure,  archdeacon, 
that  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  knew/ 
nothing  about  it." 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  said  the  archdea- 
con, dolefully. 

"  Or  I  certainly  should  not  have  been  glad  to 
see  him  here.  But  the  house,  you  know,  is  not 
mine.  Dr.  Grantly.  I  could  have  done  nothing 
if  I  had  known  it.  But  only  to  think —  "Well, 
to  be  sure.      She  has  not  lost  time,  at  any  rate." 

Now  this  was  not  at  all  the  light  in  which 
the  archdeacon  wished  that  the  matter  should 
be  regarded.  He  had  been  desirous  that  Lady 
Lufton  should  be  horror-stricken  by  the  tidings, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  regarded  the  in- 
iquity almost  as  a  good  joke.  Wiiat  did  it 
matter  how  young  or  how  old  tlie  girl  might 
be  ?  She  came  of  poor  people — of  people  who 
had  no  friends — of  disgraced  people  ;  and  Lady 
Lufton  ought  to  feel  that  such  a  marriage  would 
be  a  terrible  misfortune  and  a  terrible  crime. 
"I  need  hardly  tell  you,  Lady  Lufton,"  said 
the  archdeacon,  "thatlsliall  set  my  face  against 
it  as  far  as  it  is  in  my  power  to  do  so." 


"  If  they  both  be  resolved  I  suppose  you  can 
hardly  i)revcnt  it." 

"  Of  course  I  can  not  prevent  it.  Of  course 
I  can  not  prevent  it.  If  lie  will  break  my  heart 
and  his  mother's — ^and  his  sister's — of  course  I 
can  not  jjrevent  it.  If  he  will  ruin  himself,  he 
must  have  his  own  way." 

"Ruin  himself.  Dr.  Grantly?" 

"They  will  have  enough  to  live  upon — 
somewhere  in  Spain  or  France."  Tlie  scorn 
expressed  in  the  archdeacon's  voice  as  lie  spoke 
of  Pan  as  being  "somewhere  in  Spain  or 
France"  should  have  been  heard  to  be  under- 
stood. "No  doubt  they  will  have  enough  to 
live  upon." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  will  make  a 
diiFerence  as  to  your  own  property.  Dr.  Grant- 
ly?" 

"Certainly  it  will,  Lady  Lufton.  I  told 
Henry  when  I  first  heard  of  the  thing — before 
he  had  definitely  made  any  offer  to  the  girl — 
that  I  should  withdraw  from  him  altogether  the 
allowance  that  I  now  make  him  if  he  married 
her.  And  I  told  him  also  that  if  he  persisted 
in  his  folly  I  should  think  it  my  duty  to  alter 
my  will." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  Dr.  Grantly." 

"Sorry!  And  am  not  I  sorry?  Sorrow  is 
no  sufficient  word.  I  am  broken-hearted. 
Lady  Lufton,  it  is  killing  me.  It  is  indeed.  I 
love  him  ;  I  love  him  ;  I  love  him  as  you  have 
loved  your  son.  But  what  is  the  use  ?  What 
can  he  be  to  me  when  he  shall  have  married 
the  daughter  of  such  a  man  as  that?" 

Lady  Lufton  sat  for  a  while  silent,  thinking 
of  a  certain  episode  in  her  own  life.  There  had 
been  a  time  when  her  son  was  desirous  of  mak- 
ing a  marriage  which  she  had  thought  would 
break  her  heart.  She  had  for  a  time  moved 
heaven  and  earth — as  far  as  she  knew  how  to 
move  them — to  prevent  the  marriage.  But  at 
last  she  had  yielded — not  from  lack  of  power, 
for  the  circumstances  had  been  such  that  at  the 
moment  of  yielding  she  had  still  the  power  in 
her  hand  of  staying  the  marriage — but  she  had 
yielded  because  she  had  perceived  that  her  son 
was  in  earnest.  She  had  yielded,  and  had 
kissed  the  dust ;  but  from  the  moment  in  which 
her  lips  had  so  touched  the  ground  she  had  tak- 
en great  joy  in  the  new  daughter  whom  her  son 
had  brought  into  the  house.  Since  that  she 
had  learned  to  think  tliat  young  people  miglit 
perhaps  be  riglit,  and  that  old  people  might 
perhajis  be  wrong.  This  trouble  of  her  friend 
the  archdeacon's  was  very  like  her  own  old 
ta-ouble.  "And  he  is  engaged  to  her  now?" 
she  said,  when  those  thoughts  had  passed 
through  her  mind. 

"Yes — that  is,  no.  I  am  not  sure.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  make  myself  sure." 

"I  am  sure  ]\Iajor  Grantly  will  tell  you  all 
the  truth  as  it  exists." 

"  Y'es ;  he'll  tell  me  the  truth — as  far  as  he 
knows  it,  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  much  anx- 
iety to  spare  me  in  the  matter.  He  is  desirous 
rather  of  making  me  understand  that  I  have  no 


252 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


power  of  saving  him  from  liis  own  folly.  Of 
course  I  have  no  power  of  saving  him." 

"  But  is  he  engaged  to  her?" 

"  He  says  that  she  has  refused  him.  But  of 
course  that  means  nothing." 

Again  tlie  archdeacon's  position  was  very  like 
Lady  Lufton's  position  as  it  had  existed  hetbre 
her  son's  marriage.  In  that  case  also  the 
young  lady,  who  was  now  Lady  Lufton's  own 
daughter  and  dearest  friend,  had  refused  the 
lover  who  proposed  to  her,  altliougli  the  mar- 
riage was  so  much  to  her  advantage — loving  him, 
too,  the  while,  witii  her  whole  heart,  as  it  was 
natural  to  sui)pose  that  Grace  Crawley  might  so 
love  her  lover.  The  more  slic  thouglit  of  the 
similarity  of  the  stories,  the  stronger  were  her 
sympathies  on  the  side  of  poor  Grace.  Never- 
theless slie  would  comfort  her  old  friend  if  she 
knew  how ;  and  of  course  she  could  not  but  ad- 
mit to  herself  that  the  match  was  one  which 
must  be  a  cause  of  real  sorrow  to  him.  "I 
don't  know  why  her  refusal  sliould  mean  no- 
thing," said  Lady  Lufton. 

"Of  course  a  girl  refuses  at  first — a  girl,  I 
mean,  in  such  circumstances  as  hers.  She  can't 
but  feel  that  more  is  oft'ercd  to  her  than  she 
ouglit  to  take,  and  that  she  is  bound  to  go 
tlirough  the  ceremony  of  declining.  But  my 
anger  is  not  with  her.  Lady  Lufton." 

"I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be." 

"  No ;  it  is  not  witli  her.  If  she  becomes 
his  wife  I  trust  that  I  may  never  see  her." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Grantly!" 

"  I  do  ;  I  do.  How  can  it  be  otiierwise  with 
me?  But  I  shall  have  no  quarrel  with  her. 
With  him  I  must  quarrel." 

"I  do  not  see  why,"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

"You  do  not?  Docs  he  not  set  me  at  de- 
fiance ?" 

"At  his  age  surely  a  son  has  a  right  to  mar- 
ry as  he  pleases." 

"If  he  took  her  out  of  the  streets,  then  it 
would  be  the  same!"  said  the  archdeacon,  with 
bitter  anger. 

"No ;  for  such  a  one  would  herself  be  bad." 

"  Or  if  she  were  the  daughter  of  a  huckster 
out  of  the  city  ?" 

"No  again  ;  for  in  that  case  her  want  of  edu- 
cation would  probably  unfit  her  for  your  society." 

"Her  father's  disgrace,  then,  should  be  a 
matter  of  indiiference  to  me,  Lady  Lufton  ?" 

"I  did  not  say  so.  In  tlie  first  place,  her 
fiither  is  not  disgraced  — not  as  yet ;  and  we  do 
not  know  whether  he  may  ever  be  disgraced. 
You  will  hardly  be  disposed  to  say  that  persecu- 
tion from  the  palace  disgraces  a  clergyman  in 
Barsetshire." 

"All  the  same,  I  believe  that  the  man  was 
guilty,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Wait  and  see,  my  friend,  before  you  con- 
demn him  altogether.  But,  be  that  as  it  may, 
I  acknowledge  that  the  marriage  is  one  which 
must  naturally  be  distasteful  to  you." 

"  Oil,  Lady  Lufton!  if  you  only  knew!  If 
you  only  knew !" 

"I  do  know;  and  I  feel  for  you.     But  I 


think  that  your  son  has  a  right  to  expect  that 
you  should  not  show  the  same  repugnance  t-o  such 
a  marriage  as  this  as  you  would  have  had  a  right 
to  show  had  he  suggested  to  himself  such  a  wife 
as  those  at  which  you  just  now  hinted.  Of 
course  you  can  advise  him,  and  make  him  un-- 
derstand  yom-  feelings  ;  but  I  can  not  think  you 
will  be  justified  in  quarreling  with  him,  or  in 
changing  your  views  toward  him  as  regards 
money,  seeing  that  j\Iiss  Crawley  is  an  educa- 
ted lady,  who  has  done  nothing  to  forfeit  your 
respect."  A  heavy  cloud  came  upon  the  arch- 
ilcacon's  brow  as  he  heard  tliese  words,  but  he 
did  not  make  any  immediate  answer.  "Of 
course,  my  friend,"  continued  Lady  Lufton, 
"I  should  not  liave  ventured  to  say  so  much  to 
you  had  you  not  come  to  me,  as  it  were,  for 
my  ojiinion." 

"  I  came  here  because  I  thought  Henry  w&? 
here,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"If  I  have  said  too  much  I  beg  your  pardon.'' 

"No;  you  have  not  said  too  much.  It  is 
not  that.  You  and  I  are  such  old  friends  that 
either  may  say  almost  any  thing  to  the  other." 

"Yes — just  so.  And  therefore  I  have  ven- 
tured to  speak  my  mind,"  said  Lady  Lufton. 

"  Of  course  ;  and  I  am  obliged  to  you.  But, 
Lady  Lufton,  you  do  not  understand  yet  how 
tills  hits  me.  Every  thing  in  life  that  I  have 
done  I  have  done  for  my  children.  I  am 
wealthy,  but  I  have  not  used  my  wealth  for  my- 
self, because  I  have  desired  that  they  should  be 
able  to  hold  their  heads  high  in  the  world.  All 
my  ambition  has  been  for  them,  and  all  tlie 
pleasui-e  which  I  have  anticipated  for  myself  in 
my  old  age  is  that  which  I  have  hoped  to  re- 
ceive from  their  credit.  As  for  Henry,  he 
might  have  had  any  thing  he  wanted  from  me 
in  the  way  of  money.  He  expressed  a  wish,  a 
few  months  since,  to  go  into  Parliament,  and  I 
promised  to  help  him  as  far  as  ever  I  could  go. 
I  have  kept  up  the  game  altogether  for  him. 
He,  the  younger  son  of  a  working  parish  jjarson, 
has  had  every  thing  that  could  be  given  to  the 
eldest  son  of  a  country  gentleman — more  than 
is  given  to  the  eldest  son  of  many  a  peer.  I 
have  hoped  that  he  would  marry  again,  but  I 
have  never  cared  that  he  should  marry  for  mon^ 
ey.  I  have  been  willing  to  do  any  thing  for 
him  myself.  But,  Lady  Lufton,  a  father  docs 
feel  that  he  should  have  some  return  for  all 
this.  No  one  can  imagine  that  Henry  ever 
supposed  that  a  bride  from  that  wretched  place 
at  Ilogglestock  could  be  welcomed  among  us. 
He  knew  that  he  would  break  our  hearts,  and 
he  did  not  care  for  it.  That  is  what  I  feel. 
Of  course  he  has  the  power  to  do  as  he  likes — 
and  of  course  I  have  the  power  to  do  as  I  like 
also  with  what  is  my  own." 

Lady  Lufton  was  a  very  good  woman,  de- 
voted to  her  duties,  affectionate  and  just  to  those 
about  her,  truly  religious,  and  charitable  from 
her  nature  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  the  thorough 
worldliness  of  the  archdeacon's  appeal  struck 
her  as  it  will  strike  the  reader.  People  are  so 
much  more  worldly  in  practice  than  they  are  in 


THE  LAST  CURONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


253 


theory,  so  much  keener  after  their  own  gratifica- 
tion in  detail  than  they  are  in  the  abstract,  tliat 
the  narrative  of  many  an  adventure  would  shock 
us,  though  the  same  adventure  would  not  sliock 
us  in  the  action.  One  girl  tells  another  liow 
she  has  changed  her  mind  in  love;  and  the 
friend  sympathizes  with  tlie  friend,  and  i)erhai>s 
apiilauds.  Had  the  story  been  told  in  print 
the  friend  who  had  listened  with  equanimity 
would  have  read  of  such  vacillation  with  indig- 
^nation.  She  who  vacillated  herself  would  have 
hated  her  own  performance  when  brought  before 
her  judgment  as  a  matter  in  which  she  had  no 
personal  interest.  Very  fine  things  are  written 
every  day  about  honesty  and  trutli,  and  men 
read  them  with  a  sort  of  external  conviction 
that  a  man,  if  he  be  any  thing  of  a  man  at  all, 
is  of  course  honest  and  true.  But  when  the  in- 
ternal convictions  are  brought  out  between  two 
or  three  who  are  personally  interested  togetlier — 
between  two  or  three  who  feel  that  their  little 
gathering  is,  so  to  say,  "tiled" — those  internal 
convictions  diiTer  very  much  from  the  external 
convictions.  This  man,  in  his  confidences,  as- 
serts broadly  that  he  does  not  mean  to  be  thrown 
over,  and  that  man  has  a  project  for  throwing 
over  somebodj''  else  ;  and  the  intention  of  each 
is  that  scruples  are  not  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
his  success.  The  "  Ruat  ca?lum,  fiat  justitia" 
was  said,  no  doubt,  from  an  outside  balcony  to 
a  crowd,  and  the  speaker  knew  that  he  was 
talking  buncombe.  The  "Rem,  si  possis  recte, 
si  non,  quocunque  modo"  was  whispered  into 
the  ear  in  a  club  smoking-room,  and  the  Avhis- 
perer  intended  that  his  words  should  prevail. 

Lady  Lafton  had  often  heard  her  friend  the 
archdeacon  preach,  and  she  knew  well  the  high 
tone  which  he  could  take  as  to  the  necessity  of 
trusting  to  our  hopes  for  the  future  for  all  our 
true  happiness ;  and  yet  she  sympathized  with 
him  when  he  told  her  that  he  was  broken-heart- 
ed because  his  son  would  take  a  step  which 
might  possibly  interfere  with  his  worldly  pros- 
perity. Had  the  archdeacon  been  preaching 
about  matrimony,  he  would  have  recommended 
young  men,  in  taking  wives  to  themselves,  es- 
pecially to  look  for  young  women  who  feared 
the  Lord.  But  in  talking  about  his  own  son's 
wife,  no  word  as  to  her  eligibility  or  non-eligi- 
bility in  this  respect  escaped  his  lips.  Had  he 
talked  on  the  subject  till  nightfall  no  such  word 
would  have  been  spoken.  Had  any  friend  of 
his  own,  man  or  woman,  in  discussing  such  a 
matter  with  him  and  asking  his  advice  upon  it, 
alluded  to  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  the  allusion 
would  have  been  distasteful  to  him,  and  would 
have  smacked  to  his  palate  of  hypocrisy.  Lady 
Lufton,  who  understood  as  well  as  any  woman 
what  it  was  to  be  "tiled"  with  a  friend,  took 
all  this  in  good  part.  The  archdeacon  had 
spoken  out  of  his  heart  what  was  in  his  heart. 
One  of  his  children  had  married  a  marquis. 
Another  might  probably  become  a  bishop — per- 
haps an  archbishop.  The  third  might  be  a 
county  squire — high  among  county  squires. 
But  he  could  only  so  become  by  walking  warily 


— and  now  he  was  bent  on  marrying  the  ]yCiini- 
Icss  daughter  of  an  impoverished,  half-mad  coun- 
try curate,  wlio  was  about  to  be  tried  for  steal- 
ing twenty  pounds !  Lady  Lufton,  in  spite  of 
all  her  arguments,  could  not  refuse  her  sym- 
pathy to  her  old  friend. 

"After  all,  from  what  you  say,  I  suppose  they 
are  not  engaged." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "I 
can  not  tell!" 

"And  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do?" 
"Oh — nothing.  I  came  over,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, because  I  thought  he  was  here.  I  think 
it  right,  before  he  has  absolutely  committed 
himself,  to  take  every  means  in  my  power  to 
make  him  understand  that  I  shall  withdraw 
from  him  all  pecuniary  assistance — now  and 
for  the  future." 

"j\[y  friend,  that  threat  seems  to  me  to  be 
so  terrible." 

"  It  is  the  only  power  I  have  left  to  me." 
"  But  you,  who  are  so  affectionate  by  nature, 
would  never  adhere  to  it." 

"I  will  try.  I  will  do  my  best  to  be  firm. 
I  will  at  once  put  every  thing  beyond  my  con- 
trol after  my  death."  The  archdeacon,  as  he 
uttered  these  terrible  words — words  which  were 
awful  to  Lady  Lufton's  ears — resolved  that  he 
would  endeavor  to  nurse  his  own  wrath ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  almost  hated  himself  for  his 
own  pusillanimity,  because  he  feared  that  his 
wrath  would  die  away  before  he  should  have 
availed  himself  of  its  heat. 

"I  would  do  nothing  rash  of  that  kind,"  said 
Lady  Lufton.  "Your  object  is  to  prevent  the 
marriage — not  to  punish  him  for  it  when  once 
he  has  made  it." 

"He  is  not  to  have  his  own  way  in  every 
thing,  Lady  Lufton." 

"But  you  should  first  try  to  prevent  it." 
"What  can  I  do  to  prevent  it?" 
Lady  Lufton  paused  for  a  couple  of  minutes 
before  she  replied.  She  had  a  scheme  in  her 
head,  but  it  seemed  to  her  to  savor  of  cruelty. 
And  yet  at  present  it  was  her  chief  duty  to  as- 
sist her  old  friend  if  any  assistance  could  bo 
given.  There  could  hardly  be  a  doubt  that  such 
a  marriage  as  this  of  which  they  were  speak- 
ing was  in  itself  an  evil.  In  her  case,  the  case 
of  her  son,  there  had  been  no  question  of  a  tri- 
al, of  money  stolen,  of  aught  that  was  in  trutli 
disgraceful.  "I  think  if  I  were  you,  Dr.  Grant- 
ly,"  she  said,  "  that  I  would  see  the  young  lady 
while  I  was  here." 

"  See  her  myself?"  said  the  archdeacon.  The 
idea  of  seeing  Grace  Crawley  himself  had,  up 
to  this  moment,  never  entered  his  head. 
"I  think  I  would  do  so." 
"I  think  I  will,"  said  the  archdeacon,  after 
a  pause.  Tlien  he  got  up  from  his  chair.  "If 
I  am  to  do  it  I  had  better  do  it  at  once." 

"  Be  gentle  with  her,  my  friend."  The  arch- 
deacon paused  again.  He  certainly  had  enter- 
tained the  idea  of  encountering  Bliss  Crawley 
with  severity  rather  than  gentleness.  Lady 
Lufton  rose  from  her  seat,  and  coming  up  to 


2rA 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


him  took  one  of  his  hands  between  her  own 
two.  "Be  Rcntle  to  licr,"  she  said.  "You 
have  owned  that  she  has  done  nothing  wrong." 
Tlie  archdeacon  bowed  his  head  iu  token  of  as- 
sent, and  loft  the  room. 
Poor  Grace  Crawley ! 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

A     DOUBLE     PLEDGE. 

The  archdeacon,  as  he  -walked  across  from 
the  court  to  the  parsonage,  was  very  thought- 
ful and  his  stei)s  were  Aery  slow.  This  idea  of 
seeing  Miss  Crawley  Iierself  had  been  suggested 
to  him  suddenly,  and  he  had  to  determine  how 
he  would  bear  himself  toward  her,  and  what  he 
wouhl  say  to  her.  Lady  Lufton  liad  bcseech- 
cd  liim  to  bo  gentle  with  lier.  Was  the  mis- 
sion one  in  wliich  gentleness  would  be  possible  ? 
Must  it  not  be  his  object  to  make  this  young  lady 
understand  that  she  could  not  be  right  in  desir- 
ing to  come  into  his  family  and  share  in  all  his 
good  tilings  when  she  had  got  no  good  things  of 
Iier  own — nothing  but  evil  things  to  bring  with 
lier  ?  And  how  could  this  be  properly  explained 
to  tlie  young  lady  in  gentle  terms  ?  Must  he  not 
be  round  with  her,  and  give  her  to  understand 
iu  plain  words — the  plainest  which  he  could 
nse— that  she  would  not  get  his  good  things, 
though  slie  would  most  certainly  impose  the 
burden  of  all  her  evil  things  on  the  man  whom 
slie  was  proposing  to  herself  as  a  husband  ? 
lie  remembered  very  well  as  he  went  that  he 
had  been  told  that  Miss  Crawley  had  herself  re- 
fused the  olfer,  feeling  herself  to  be  nnfit  for 
the  honor  tendered  to  her ;  but  he  suspected  the 
sincerity  of  such  a  refusal.  Calculating  in  his 
own  mind  the  unreasonably  great  advantages 
wliich  would  bo  conferred  on  such  a  young  lady 
as  INliss  Crawley  by  a  marriage  with  his  son,  he 
declared  to  himself  that  any  girl  must  be  very 
wicked  indeed  who  should  expect,  or  even  ac- 
cept, so  much  more  than  was  her  due;  but 
nevertheless  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  be- 
lieve tliat  any  girl,  when  so  tempted,  would,  in 
sincerity,  decline  to  commit  this  great  wicked- 
ness. If  he  was  to  do  any  good  by  seeing  Miss 
Crawley,  must  it  not  consist  in  a  proper  expla- 
nation to  her  of  the  selfishness,  abomination,  and 
altogetlicr  damnable  blackness  of  such  wicked- 
ness as  this  on  the  part  of  a  ycjiing  woman  in 
her  circumstances?  "Heaven  and  earth!"  he 
must  say,  "here  are  you,  without  a  penny  in 
your  pocket,  with  hardly  decent  raiment  on 
your  back,  w^ith  a  thief  for  your  father,  and  you 
think  that  you  are  to  come  and  share  in  all  the 
M-ealth  that  the  Grantlys  have  amassed,  that 
you  are  to  have  a  husband  with  broad  acres,  a 
big  house,  and  game  preserves,  and  become  one 
of  a  family  whose  name  has  never  been  touched 
by  a  single  accusation — no,  not  by  a  suspicion  ? 
Ko ;  injustice  such  as  that  shall  never  be  done 
betwixt  you  and  me.  You  may  wring  my 
heart,  and  you  may  ruin  my  son  ;  but  the  broad 
acrcSj  and  the  big  house,  and  the  game  preserves, 


and  the  rest  of  it,  shall  never  be  your  reward 
for  doing  so."  How  was  all  that  to  be  told  ef- 
fectively to  a  young  woman  iu  gentle  words? 
And  then  how  was  a  man  in  the  archdeacon's 
position  to  be  desirous  of  gentle  words — gentle 
words  which  would  not  be  eflicient — when  he 
knew  well  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  he  had  no- 
thing but  his  threats  on  which  to  depend?  He 
had  no  more  power  of  disinheriting  his  own 
son  for  such  an  oflFense  as  that  contemplated 
than  he  had  of  blowing  out  his  own  brains,  and 
he  knew  that  it  was  so.  He  Avas  a  man  ineapa-  * 
ble  of  sucli  persistency  of  wrath  against  one 
whom  he  loved.  He  was  neither  cruel  enough 
nor  strong  enough  to  do  such  a  thing.  lie 
could  only  threaten  to  do  it,  and  make  what 
best  use  he  might  of  threats,  while  threats 
might  be  of  avail.  In  spite  of  all  that  he 
had  said  to  his  wife,  to  Lady  Lufton,  and  to  him- 
self, he  knew  very  well  that  if  his  son  did  sin 
in  this  way  he,  the  father,  would  forgive  the  sin 
of  the  son. 

In  going  across  from  the  front  gate  of  the 
Court  to  the  parsonage  there  was  a  jilacc  wlicrc 
three  roads  met,  and  on  this  spot  there  stood  a 
finger-post.  Round  this  finger-post  there  was 
now  pasted  a  placard,  which  at  once  arrested 
the  archdeacon's  eye  :  "  Cosby  Lodge — Sale  of 
furniture — Growing  crops  to  bo  sold  on  the 
grounds — Three  hunters.  A  brown  gelding 
AvaiTantcd  for  saddle  or  harness!" — The  arch- 
deacon himself  had  given  the  brown  gelding  to 
his  son,  as  a  great  treasure. — "Three  Alderney 
cows,  two  cow-calves,  a  low  phaeton,  a  gig,  two 
ricks  of  hay."  In  this  fashion  were  proclaimed 
in  odious  details  all  those  comfortable  additions 
to  a  gentleman's  house  in  the  country  with . 
which  the  archdeacon  was  so  well  acquainted. 
Only  last  November  he  had  recommended  his 
son  to  buy  a  certain  new-invented  clod-crusher, 
and  the  clod-crusher  had  of  course  been  bought. 
The  bright  blue  paint  upon  it  had  not  as  yet 
given  way  to  the  stains  of  the  ordinary  farm-yard 
muck  and  mire— and  here  Avas  the  clod-crusher 
advertised  for  sale !  The  archdeacon  did  not 
Avant  his  son  to  leaA'e  Cosby  Lodge.  He  kncAv 
Avell  enough  that  his  son  need  not  leave  Cosby 
Lodge.  Why  had  the  foolish  fellow  been  in 
such  a  hurry  Avith  his  hideous  ill-conditioned 
advertisements?  Gentle!  How  Avas  he  in 
such  circumstances  to  be  gentle  ?  He  raised 
his  umbrella  and  poked  angrily  at  the  disgust- 
ing notice.  The  iron  ferule  caught  the  pajicr 
at  a  chink  in  the  post,  and  tore  it  from  the  tcp 
to  the  bottom.  But  Avhat  Avas  the  use?  A 
horrid  ugly  bill  lying  torn  in  such  a  spot  Avould 
attract  only  more  attention  than  one  fixed  to  a 
post.  He  could  not  condescend,  hoAvoA'cr,  to 
give  to  it  further  attention,  but  passed  on  up  to 
the  parsonage.     Gentle,  indeed! 

Nevertheless  Archdeacon  Grantly  A\'as  a  gen- 
tleman, and  never  yet  had  dealt  more  harslily 
Ayith  any  Avoman  than  Ave  have  sometimes  seen 
him  do  with  his  Avife — \A'hen  he  would  say  to  her 
an  angry  Avord  or  tAvo  Avith  a  good  deal  of  mar- 
ital authority.     His  Avife,  Avho  kncAV  Avell  Avhat 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


255 


liis  angry  words  were  wortli,  never  even  suggest- 
ed to  herself  that  she  had  cause  for  complaint 
on  that  head.  Had  she  known  that  the  arch- 
deacon was  about  to  undertake  such  a  mission  as 
this  which  he  had  now  in  hand  slic  would  not 
have  warned  him  to  be  gentle.  She,  indeed, 
would  have  strongly  advised  him  not  to  under- 
take the  mission,  cautioning  him  that  the  young 
lady  would  probably  get  the  better  of  him. 

"  Grace,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Kobarts,  com- 
ing up  into  the  nursery  in  which  Miss  Crawley 
was  sitting  with  the  cliildren,  "  come  out  here 
a  moment,  will  you  ?"  Then  Grace  left  the 
children  and  went  out  into  the  passage.  "My 
dear,  there  is  a  gentleman  in  the  drawing-room 
who  asks  to  see  you." 

"A  gentleman,  Mrs.  Robarts!  "What  gen- 
tleman ?"  But  Grace,  though  she  asked  the 
question,  conceived  that  the  gentleman  must  bc 
Henry  Grantly.  Her  mind  did  not  suggest  to 
her  the  possibility  of  any  other  gentleman  com- 
ing to  see  her. 

"You  must  not  be  surprised,  or  allow  your- 
self to  be  frightened." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Robarts,  who  is  it  ?'' 

"  It  is  Major  Grantly's  father."  *  ' 

"  The  archdeacon?" 

"Yes,  dear;  Archdeacon  Grantly.  lie  is 
in  the  drawing-room." 

"Must  I  see  him,  Mrs.  Robarts?" 

"Well,  Grace,  I  think  you  must.  I  hardly 
know  how  you  can  refuse.  He  is  an  intimate 
friend  of  every  body  here  at  Framley." 

"What  will  he  say  to  me?" 

"Nay;  that  I  can  not  tell.  I  suppose  you 
know — " 

"  He  has  come,  no  doubt,  to  bid  me  have  no- 
thing to  say  to  his  son.  He  need  not  have  trou- 
bled himself.  But  he  may  say  what  he  likes. 
I  am  not  a  coward,  and  I  will  go  to  him." 

"  Stop  a  moment,  Grace.  Come  into  my 
room  for  an  instant.  The  children  have  pulled 
your  hair  about."  But  Grace,  though  she  fol- 
lowed i\Irs.  Robarts  into  the  bedroom,  would 
have  nothing  done  to  her  hair.  She  was  too 
proud  for  that — and  we  may  say,  also,  too  little 
confident  in  any  good  which  such  resources 
might  effect  on  her  behalf.  ' '  Never  mind  about 
that,"  she  said.  "  What  am  I  to  say  to  him  ?" 
Mrs.  Robarts  paused  before  she  replied,  feeling 
that  the  matter  was  one  which  required  some 
deliberation.  "  Tell  me  what  I  must  say  to 
•him?"  said  Grace,  repeating  her  question. 

"I  hardly  know  what  your  own  feelings  are, 
my  dear." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  do  know.  If  I  had  all 
the  world  to  give,  I  would  give  it  all  to  Major 
Grantly." 

"Tell  him  that,  then." 

"No,  I  will  not  tell  him  that.  Never  mind 
about  my  frock,  INIrs.  Robarts.  I  do  not  care 
for  that.  I  will  tell  him  that  I  love  his  son  and 
his  grand-daughter  too  well  to  injure  them.  I 
will  tell  him  nothing  else.  I  might  as  well  go 
now."  Mrs.  Robarts,  as  she  looked  at  Grace,  was 
astonished  at  t!ie  serenity  of  her  face.     And  yet 


when  her  hand  was  on  the  drawing-room  door 
Grace  hesitated,  looked  back,  and  trembled. 
Mrs.  Robarts  blew  a  kiss  to  her  from  the  stairs  ; 
and  then  the  door  was  ojjened,  and  the  girl 
found  herself  in  the  presence  of  the  archdeacon. 
He  was  standing  on  the  rug,  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  and  his  heavy  ecclesiastical  hat  was 
placed  on  the  middle  of  the  round  table. 
The  hat  caught  Grace's  eye  at  the  moment  of 
her  entrance,  and  she  felt  that  all  the  thunders 
of  the  Church  were  contained  within  it.  And 
then  the  archdeacon  himself  was  so  big,  and  so 
clerical,  and  so  imposing  !  Her  father's  aspect 
was  severe,  but  the  severity  of  her  fother's  face 
was  essentially  different  from  that  expressed  by 
the  archdeacon.  Whatever  impression  came 
from  her  father  came  from  the  man  himself. 
There  was  no  outward  adornment  there  ;  there 
was,  so  to  say,  no  wig  about  Mr.  Crawley.  Now 
the  archdeacon  was  not  exactly  adorned  ;  but 
he  was  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  liigh  clerical 
belongings  and  sacerdotal  fitnesses  as  to  appear 
always  as  u  walking,  sitting,  or  standing  im- 
jiersonation  of  parsondom.  To  poor  Grace,  as 
she  entered  the  room,  he  appeared  to  be  an  im- 
personation of  parsondom  in  its  severest  aspect. 
"Miss  Crawley,  I  believe?"  said  he. 
"Yes,  Sir,"  said  she,  courtesying  ever  so 
slightly,  as  she  stood  before  him  at  some  con- 
siderable distance. 

His  first  idea  was  that  his  son  must  be  in- 
deed a  fool  if  he  was  going  to  give  up  Cosby 
Lodge  and  all  Barsetshire,  and  retire  to  Pau, 
for  so  slight  and  unattractive  a  creature  as  he 
now  saw  before  him.  But  this  idea  staid  with 
him  only  for  a  moment.  As  he  continued  to 
gaze  at  her  during  the  interview  he  came  to 
perceive  that  there  was  very  much  more  than 
he  had  perceived  at  the  first  glance,  and  that 
his  son,  after  all,  had  had  eyes  to  see,  though  / 
perhaps  not  a  heart  to  understand. 

"Will  you  not  take  a  chair?"  he  said.  Then 
Grace  sat  down,  still  at  a  distance  from  the 
archdeacon,  and  he  kept  his  place  upon  the 
rug.  He  felt  that  there  would  be  a  difliculty 
in  making  her  feel  the  full  force  of  his  eloquence 
all  across  the  room ;  and  yet  he  did  not  know 
how  to  bring  himself  nearer  to  her.  She  be- 
came suddenly  very  important  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  was  to  some  extent  afraid  of  her.  She  was 
so  slight,  so  meek,  so  young ;  and  yet  there  Avas 
about  her  something  so  beautifully  feminine —  . 
and  withal  so  like  a  lady — that  he  felt  instinct- 
ively that  he  could  not  attack  her  with  hai-sh 
words.  Had  her  lips  been  full,  and  her  color 
high,  and  had  her  eyes  rolled,  had  she  put  forth 
against  him  any  of  that  ordinary  artillery  with 
which  youthful  feminine  batteries  are  charged, 
he  would  have  been  ready  to  rush  to  the  com- 
bat. But  this  girl  about  wliora  his  son  had  gone 
mad  sat  there  as  passively  as  though  she  were 
conscious  of  the  possession  of  no  artillery.  There 
was  not  a  single  gun  fired  from  beneath  her  eye- 
lids. He  knew  not  why,  but  he  respected  his 
son  now  more  than  he  had  rcsiiected  him  for 
the  last  two  months — more,  perhaps,  than  he 


2oG 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


had  ever  respected  him  before.  He  was  as 
ca^er  as  ever  against  tlic  marriage ;  but  in 
thinking  of  his  son  in  what  he  said  and  did  aft- 
er these  few  first  moments  of  the  interview,  he 
ceased  to  tliink  of  liini  with  contempt.  Tiie 
creature  before  liim  was  a  woman  who  grew  in 
his  opinion  till  lie  began  to  feel  that  she  w.is  in 
truth  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  his  son — if  only 
she  were  not  a  paujier,  and  the  daughter  of  a 
mad  curate,  and,  alas!  too  i)robably,  of  a  thief. 
Though  his  feeling  toward  the  girl  was  changed, 
his  duty  to  himself,  his  family,  and  his  son  was 
the  same  as  ever,  and  tlicrefore  he  began  his  task. 

"Perhaps  you  had  not  expected  to  sec  me?" 
he  said. 

"No  indeed,  Sir." 

"  Nor  had  I  intended  when  I  came  over  hero 
to  call  on  my  old  friend,  Lady  Lufton,  to  come 
up  to  this  house.  But  as  I  knew  that  you  were 
Iiere,  Sliss  Crawley,  I  tliought  that  upon  the 
whole  it  would  be  better  that  I  should  sec  you." 
Then  he  paused,  as  though  he  expected  that 
Grace  would  say  something ;  but  Grace  had  no- 
thing to  say.  "Of  course  you  must  under- 
stand, Miss  Crawley,  that  I  should  not  venture 
to  speak  to  you  on  this  subject  unless  I  myself 
were  very  closely  interested  in  it."  He  had  not 
yet  said  what  was  the  subject,  and  it  was  not 
probable  that  Grace  should  give  him  any  assist- 
ance by  affecting  to  understand  this  without  di- 
rect explanation  from  him.  She  sat  quite  mo- 
tionless, and  did  not  even  aid  him  by  showing 
by  her  altered  color  that  she  understood  his  pur- 
pose. "My  son  has  told  me,"  said  he,  "that 
he  has  professed  an  attachment  for  you,  Miss 
Crawley." 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  and  Grace  felt 
that  she  was  compelled  to  say  something.  "]\Ia- 
jor  Grantly  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  she 
said,  and  then  she  hated  herself  for  having  ut- 
tered words  which  were  so  tame  and  unwoman- 
ly in  their  spirit.  Of  course  her  lover's  father 
would  despise  her  for  having  so  spoken.  After 
all,  it  did  not  much  signify.  If  he  would  only 
despise  her  and  go  away  it  would  perhaps  be 
for  the  best. 

"I  do  not  know  about  being  good,"  said  the 
archdeacon.  "  I  think  he  is  good.  I  think  he 
means  to  be  good." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  good,"  said  Grace,  warmly. 

"You  know  he  has  a  daughter,  Miss  Craw- 
ley?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  know  Edith  well." 

"  Of  course  his  first  duty  is  to  her.  Is  it 
not?  And  he  owes  much  to  his  family.  Do 
you  not  feel  that?" 

"  Of  course  I  feel  it,  Sir."  The  poor  girl 
had  always  heard  Dr.  Grantly  spoken  of  as  the 
archdeacon,  but  she  did  not  in  the  least  know 
what  she  ought  to  call  him. 

"Now,  Miss  Crawley,  pray  listen  to  me ;  I 
will  speak  to  you  very  openly.  I  must  speak 
to  you  openly,  because  it  is  my  duty  on  my 
son's  behalf — but  I  will  endeavor  to  speak  to 
you  kindly  also.  Of  yourself  I  have  heard  no- 
thing but  what  is  favorable,  and  there  is  uo 


reason  as  yet  why  I  should  not  respect  and  es- 
teem you."  Grace  told  herself  that  she  would 
do  nothing  which  ought  to  forfeit  his  respect  and 
esteem,  but  that  she  did  not  care  two  straws 
whether  his  respect  and  esteem  were  bestowed 
on  her  or  not.  She  was  striving  after  some- 
thing very  different  from  that.  "If  my  son 
were  to  marry  you,  he  would  greatly  injure  him- 
self, and  would  very  greatly  injure  liis  child." 
Again  he  paused.  He  had  told  her  to  listen, 
and  she  was  resolved  that  she  would  listen — 
unless  he  should  say  something  which  might 
make  a  word  from  her  necessary  at  the  moment. 
"  I  do  not  know  whether  there  does  at  present 
exist  any  engagement  between  you?" 
)    "There  is  no  engagement.  Sir." 

"I  am  glad  of  that — very  glad  of  it.  I  do 
not  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  my  son  is 
dependent  upon  me  for  the  greater  part  of  his  in- 
come. It  is  so,  and  as  I  am  so  circumstanced 
with  my  son,  of  course  I  feel  the  closest  possible 
concern  in  his  future  j)rospects."  Tlie  archdea- 
con did  not  know  how  to  explain  clearly  why 
the  fact  of  his  making  a  son  an  annual  allowance 
should  give  him  a  warmer  interest  in  his  son's 
aftliirs  than  he  might  have  had  had  the  major 
been  altogether  independent  of  him  ;  but  he 
trasted  that  Grace  would  understand  this  by  her 
own  natural  lights.  "Now,  Miss  Crawley,  of 
course  I  can  not  wish  to  say  a  word  that  shall 
hurt  your  feelings.  But  there  are  reasons — " 
^  "I  know,"  said  she,  interrupting  him.  '"Papa 
is  accused  of  stealing  money.  He  did  not  steal 
it,  but  people  think  he  did.  And  then  we  are 
so  very  poor." 

"You  do  understand  me,  then — and  I  feel 
grateful ;  I  do  indeed." 

"  I  don't  think  our  being  poor  ought  to  signi- 
fy a  bit,"  said  Grace.  "  Papa  is  a  gentleman 
and  a  clergyman,  and  mamma  is  a  lady." 

"  But,  my  dear — " 

"I  know  I  ought  not  to  be  your  son's  wife  as 
long  as  people  think  that  papa  stole  the  money. 
If  he  had  stolen  it,  I  ought  never  to  be  Major 
Grantly's  wife — or  any  body's  wife.  I  know  that 
very  well.  And  as  for  Edith — I  would  sooner 
die  than  do  any  thing  that  would  be  bad  to  her." 

The  archdeacon  had  now  left  the  rug,  and 
advanced  till  he  was  almost  close  to  the  chair 
in  which  Grace  was  sitting.  "My  dear,"  he 
said,  "what  you  say  does  you  very  much  honor 
— very  much  honor  indeed."  Now  that  he  Avas 
close  to  her,  he  could  look  into  her  eyes,  and 
he- could  see  the  exact  form  of  her  features,  and 
could  understand — could  not  help  understand- 
ing— the  character  of  her  countenance.  It  was 
a  noble  face,  having  in  it  nothing  that  was  poor, 
nothing  that  was  mean,  nothing  that  was  shape- 
less. It  was  a  face  that  promised  infinite  beauty, 
with  a  promise  that  was  on  the  very  verge  of 
fulfillment.  There  was  a  play  about  her  mouth  j 
as  she  spoke,  and  a  curl  in  her  nostril  as  the  fl 
eager  words  came  from  her,  which  almost  made 
the  selfish  father  give  way.  Why  had  they  not 
told  him  that  she  was  such  a  one  as  this  ?  Why 
had  not  Henry  himself  spoken  of  the.  specialty 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


257 


of  her  beauty  ?  No  man  in  England  knew  bet- 
ter than  the  archdeacon  the  ditfercnce  between 
beauty  of  due  kind  and  beauty  of  anotlier  kind 
in  a  woman's  face — the  one  beauty,  which  comes 
from  liealth  and  youth  and  animal  spirits,  and 
which  belongs  to  the  miller's  daughter,  and  the 
other  beauty,  which  shows  itself  in  fine  lines 
and  a  noble  spirit — the  beauty  which  comes 
from  breeding.  "  What  you  say  does  you  very 
much  honor  indeed,"  said  tlie  archdeacon. 

"  I  should  not  mind  at  all  about  being  poor," 
said  Grace. 

"  No  ;  no  ;  no,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Poor  as  we  arc — and  no  clergyman,  I  think, 
ever  was  so  poor — I  should  have  done  as  your  son 
asked  me  at  once  if  it  had  been  only  that — be- 
cause I  love  him." 

"If  you  love  him  yon  will  not  wish  to  injure 
him." 

"I  will  not  injure  him.  Sir,  there  is  my 
promise."  And  now  as  she  spoke  she  rose  from 
her  chair,  and  standing  close  to  the  archdeacon 
laid  her  hand  very  lightly  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat.  "  There  is  my  promise.  As  long  as  peo- 
ple say  that  papa  stole  the  money  I  will  never 
marry  your  son.     There." 

The  archdeacon  was  still  looking  down  at  her, 
and  feeling  the  slight  touch  of  her  fingers  raised 
his  arm  a  little  as  though  to  welcome  the  press- 
ure. He  looked  into  her  eyes,  which  were 
turned  eagerly  toward  his,  and  when  doing  so 
was  quite  sure  that  the  promise  would  be  kept. 
It-would  have  been  sacrilege — he  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  sacrilege — to  doubt  such  a 
promise.  He  almost  relented.  His  soft  heart, 
which  was  never  A'ery  well  under  his  own  con- 
trol, gave  way  so  far  that  he  was  nearly  moved 
to  tell  her  that,  on  his  son's  behalf,  he  acquitted 
her  of  the  promise.  What  could  any  man's  son 
do  better  than  have  such  a  woman  for  his  wife  ? 
It  would  have  been  of  no  avail  had  he  made  her 
such  ofF^,'r.  The  pledge  she  had  given  had  not 
been  wrung  from  her  by  his  influence,  nor  could 
his  influence  have  availed  aught  with  her  to- 
ward the  alteration  of  her  purpose.  It  was  not 
the  archdeacon  who  had  taught  her  that  it  would 
not  be  her  duty  to  take  disgrace  into  the  house 
of  the  man  she  loved.  As  he  looked  down  upon 
her  face  two  tears  formed  themselves  in  his  eyes, 
and  gradually  trickled  down  his  old  nose.  ' '  My 
dear,"  he  said,  "  if  this  cloud  passes  away  from 
'  you,  you  shall  come  to  us  and  be  my  daughter." 
And  thus  he  also  pledged  himself.  There  was 
a  dash  of  generosity  about  the  man,  in  spite  of 
his  selfishness,  which  always  made  him  desirous 
of  giving  largely  to  those  who  gave  largely  to 
him.  He  would  fain  that  his  gifts  should  be  the 
bigger,  if  it  were  possible.  He  longed  at  this 
moment  to  tell  her  that  the  ^irty  check  should 
go  for  nothing.  He  would  have  done  it,  I  think, 
but  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  so  to  speak  in 
her  presence  of  that  which  moved  her  so  greatly. 

He  had  contrived  that  her  hand  should  foil  from 

his  arm  into  his  grasp,  and  now  for  a  moment 

he  held  it.      "  You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said — 

■  a  dear,  dear,  good  girl.     When  this  cloud  has 


passed  away,  you  shall  come  to  us  and  be  our 
daughter." 

"But  it  will  never  pass  away,"  said  Grace. 

"Let  us  hope  that  it  may.  Let  us  hope  that 
it  may."  Then  he  stooped  over  her  and  kissed 
her,  and  leaving  the  room,  got  out  into  the  hall 
and  thence  into  the  garden,  and  so  away,  with- 
out saying  a  Avord  of  adieu  to  Mrs.  Robarts. 

As  he  walked  across  to  the  Court,  whither  he 
was- obliged  to  go  because  of  his  chaise,  lie  was 
lost  in  surprise  at  what  had  occurred.  He  had 
gone  to  the  parsonage  hating  the  girl,  and  de- 
spising his  son.  Now,  as  he  retraced  his  steps, 
his  feelings  were  altogether  changed.  He  ad- 
mired the  girl — and  as  for  his  son,  even  his  an- 
ger was  for  the  moment  altogether  gone.  He 
would  write  to  his  son  at  once  and  implore  him 
to  stop  the'  sale.  He  would  tell  his  son  all  that 
had  occurred,  or  rather  would  make  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly  do  so.  In  respect  to  his  son  he  was  quite 
safe.  He  thought  at  that  moment  that  he  was 
safe.  There  would  be  no  use  in  hurling  further 
threats  at  him.  If  Crawley  were  found  guilty 
of  stealing  tlw  money,  there  was  the  girl's  prom- 
ise. If  he  were  acquitted,  there  was  his  own 
pledge.  He  remembered  perfectly  well  that  the 
girl  had  said  more  than  this — that  she  had  not 
confined  her  assurance  to  the  verdict  of  a  jury, 
that  she  had  protested  that  she  would  not  accept 
Major  Grantly's  hand  as  long  as  peojjle  tliought 
that  her  father  had  stolen  the  check  ;  but  the 
archdeacon  felt  that  it  would  be  ignoble  to  hold 
her  closely  to  her  ^-ords.  The  event,  according 
to  his  ideas  of  the  compact,  was  to  depend  upon 
the  verdict  of  the  jury.  If  the  jury  should  find 
Mr.  Crawley  not  guilty,  all  objection  on  his  part 
to  the  marriage  was  to  be  withdrawn.  And  he 
would  keep  his  wordl  In  such  case  it  should 
be  withdrawn. 

When  he  came  to  the  rags  of  the  auctioneer's 
bill,  which  he  had  before  torn  down  with  his 
umbrella,  he  stopped  a  moment  to  consider  how 
he  would  act  at  once.  In  the  first  place,  he 
would  tell  his  son  that  his  threats  were  with- 
drawn, and  would  ask  him  to  remain  at  Cosby 
Lodge.  He  would  write  the  letter  as  he  passed 
through  Barchester  on  his  way  home,  so  that 
his  son  might  receive  it  on  the  following  morn- 
ing ;  and  he  would  refer  the  major  to  his  mother 
for  a  full  explanation  of  the  circumstances. 
Those  odious  bills  must  be  removed  from  every 
barn-door  and  wall  in  the  county.  At  the  pres- 
ent moment  his  anger  against  his  son  was  chiefly 
directed  against  his  ill-judged  haste  in  having 
put  up  those  ill-omened  posters.  Then  he 
paused  to  consider  what  must  be  his  wish  as  to 
the  verdict  of  the  jury.  He  had  pledged  him- 
self to  abide  by  the  verdict,  and  he  could  not 
but  have  a  wish  on  the  subject.  Could  he  de- 
sire in  his  heart  that  Mr.  Crawley  should  bo 
found  guilty?  He  stood  still  for  a  moment 
thinking  of  this,  and  then  he  walked  on,  shaking 
his  head.  If  it  might  be  possible  he  would  have 
no  wish  on  the  subject  whatsoever. 

"Well!"  said  Lady  Lufton,  stopping  him  in 
the  passage,  "have  you  seen  her?" 


258 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"but   it   AVILL   KEVnn   PASS  AWAV,"    SAID   GRACE. 


"Yes;  I  have  seen  her." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  She  is  a  good  girl— a  very  good  girl.  I  am 
in  a  great  huriy,  and  hardly  know  how  to  tell 
you  more  now." 

"You  say  that  she  is  a  good  girl?" 

"I  say  that  she  is  a  very  good  girl.  An  an- 
gel could  not  have  behaved  better.  I  will  tell 
you  all  some  day,  Lady  Lufton,  but  I  can  hardly 
tell  you  now." 

When  the  archdeacon  was  gone   old  Lady 


Lufton  confided  to  young  Lady  Lufton  her  very  •' 
strong  opinion  that  many  months  would  not  be 
gone  by  before  Grace  Crawley  would  be  the 
mistress  of  Cosby  Lodge.  "It  will  be  great 
promotion,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  little  toss 
of  her  head. 

When  Grace  was  interrogated  afterward  by 
Mrs.  Robarts  as  to  what  had  passed  between  her 
and  the  archdeacon  she  had  very  little  to  say  as 
to  the  interview.  "No,  he  did  not  scold  me," 
she  rci)lied  to  an  inquiry  from  her  friend.     "But 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


259 


he  spoke  about  your  engagement  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Robarts.  "There  is  no  engagement,"  said 
Grace.  "  But  I  suppose  you  acknowledged,  my 
dear,  that  a  future  engagement  is  quite  possi- 
ble?"' "I  told  him,  Mrs.  Robarts,"  Grace  an- 
swered, after  hesitating  for  a  moment,  "that  I 
would  never  marry  his  son  as  long  as  papa  was 
suspected  by  any  one  in  the  world  of  being  a 
thief.  And  I  will  keep  my  word."  But  she 
said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Robarts  of  the  pledge 
which  the  archdeacon  had  made  to  her. 


\v 


mm^ 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

THE    CKOSS-GRAI>'EDXESS    OF    MEN. 

By  the  time  that  the  archdeacon  reached 
Plumstead  his  enthusiasm  in  favor  of  Grace 
Crawley  had  somewhat  cooled  itself;  and  the 
language  which  from  time  to  time  he  prepared 
for  conveying  his  impressions  to  liis  wife,  became 
less  fervid  as  he  approached  his  home.  There 
was  his  pledge,  and  by  that  he  would  abide ;  and 
so  much  he  would  make  both  his  wife  and  his 
son  understand.  But  any  idea  which  he  nrfght 
have  entertained  for  a  moment  of  extending  the 
promise  he  had  given  and  relaxing  that  given 
to  him  was  gone  before  he  saw  his  own  chim- 
neys. Indeed,  I  fear  he  had  by  that  time  be- 
gun to  feel  that  the  only  salvation  now  open  to 
him  must  come  from  the  jury's  verdict.  If  the 
jury  should  declare  Mr.  Crawley  to  be  guilty, 
then —  He  would  not  say  even  to  himself  that 
in  sncli  case  all  would  be  right,  but  he  did  feel 
that  much  as  he  might  regret  the  fate  of  the 
poor  Crawleys,  and  of  the  girl  whom  in  his 
warmth  he  had  declared  to  be  almost  an  angel, 
nevertheless  to  him  personally  such  a  verdict 
would  bring  consolatory  comfort. 

"I  have  seen  ]\Iiss  Crawley,"  he  said  to  his 
wife,  as  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door  of  his 


study,  before  he  had  been  two  minutes  out  of 
the  chaise.  He  had  determined  that  he  would 
dash  at  the  subject  at  once,  and  he  thus  carried 
his  resolution  into  effect. 

"You  have  seen  Grace  Crawley?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  went  uj)  to  the  jiarsonagc  and  called 
upon  her.     Lady  Lufton  advised  me  to  do  so.'" 

"And  Henry?" 

"Oh,  Henry  has  gone.  He  was  only  there 
one  night.  I  suppose  he  saw  her,  but  I  am  not 
sure." 

"Would  not  Miss  Crawley  tell  you?" 

"  I  forgot  to  ask  her."  Mrs.  Grantly,  at 
hearing  this,  expressed  her  surprise  by  opening 
wide  her  eyes.  He  had  gone  all  the  way  over 
to  Framley  on  purpose  to  look  after  his  son,  and 
learn  what  were  his  doings,  and  when  there  he 
had  forgotten  to  ask  the  person  who  could  have 
given  him  better  information  than  any  one  else  ! 
"But  it  does  not  signif\',"  continued  the  arch- 
deacon ;  "she  said  enough  to  me  to  make  that 
of  no  importance." 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"  She  said  that  she  would  never  consent  to 
marry  Henry  as  long  as  there  was  any  suspicion 
abroad  as  to  her  father's  guilt." 

"  And  you  believe  her  promise  ?" 

"Certainly  I  do ;  I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the 
least.  I  put  implicit  confidence  in  her.  And 
I  have  promised  her  that  if  her  father  is  acquit- 
ted— I  will  withdraw  my  opposition." 

"No!" 

"But  I  have.  And  you  would  have  done 
the  same  had  you  been  there." 

"I  doubt  that,  my  dear.  I  am  not  so  im- 
pulsive as  you  are." 

"You  could  not  have  helped  yourself.  You 
would  have  felt  yourself  obliged  to  be  equally 
generous  with  her.  She  came  up  to  me  and 
she  put  her  hand  upon  me — "  "Pshaw !"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly.  "But  she  did,  my  dear;  and 
then  she  said,  'I  promise  you  that  I  will  not 
become  your  son's  wife  while  people  think  that 
papa  stole  this  money.'    What  else  could  I  do  ?" 

"And  is  she  pretty?" 

"Very  pretty  ;  very  beautiful." 

"And  like  a' lady?" 

"Quite  like  a  lady.  There  is  no  mistake 
about  that." 

"And  she  behaved  well?" 

"Admirably,"  said  the  archdeacon,  who  Avas 
in  a  measure  compelled  to  justify  the  generosity 
into  which  he  had  been  betrayed  by  his  feelings. 

"Then  she  is  a  paragon,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  may  call  a  paragon, 
my  dear.  I  say  that  she  is  a  lady,  and  that  she 
is  extremely  good-looking,  and  that  she  behaved 
very  well.  I  can  not  say  less  in  her  favor.  I 
am  sure  you  would  not  say  less  yourself  if  you 
had  been  present." 

"  Slie  must  be  a  wonderful  young  woman." 

"I  don't  know  any  thing  about  her  being 
wonderful." 

"  She  must  be  wonderful  when  she  has  suc- 
ceeded both  with  the  son  and  with  the  father." 

"I  wish  you  had  been  there  instead  of  me," 


260 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


said  the  archdeacon,  angrily.  Jlrs.  Grantly 
very  probahly  wislied  so  also,  fceliup;  that  in 
that  case  a  more  serene  mode  of  business  would 
liave  been  adopted.  How  keenly  susceptible 
tiic  archdeacon  still  was  to  the  influences  of 
feminine  charms  no  one  knew  better  than  Mrs. 
Grantly,  and  whenever  she  became  aware  tiiat 
he  had  been  in  this  way  seduced  from  the  wis- 
dom of  liis  cooler  judgment  she  always  felt  some- 
thing akin  to  indignation  against  the  seducer. 
As  for  her  husband,  she  probably  told  herself 
nt  such  moments  that  he  was  an  old  goose. 
"If  you  had  been  there,  and  Henry  with  you, 
you  would  have  made  a  great  deal  worse  job  of 
it  than  I  have  done,"  said  the  arclideacon. 

*'  I  don't  say  you  have  made  a  bad  job  of  it, 
my  dear,"  said  J\Irs.  Grantlj'.  "But  it's  past 
eight,  and  vou  must  be  terribly  in  want  of  your 
dinner.     Had  you  not  better  go  np  and  dress?" 

In  the  evening  the  plan  of  the  future  cam- 
paign was  arranged  between  them.  The  arch- 
deacon would  not  write  to  his  son  at  all.  In 
passing  through  Barchestcr  he  had  abandoned 
Ids  idea  of  disi)atching  a  note  fi'om  the  hotel, 
feeling  that  such  a  note  as  would  be  required 
was  not  easily  written  in  a  hurry.  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly would  now  write  to  her  son,  telling  him  that 
circumstances  had  changed,  that  it  would  be 
altogether  unnecessary  for  him  to  sell  his  fur- 
niture, and  begging  him  to  come  over  and  see 
his  father  without  a  day's  delay.  She  wrote 
her  letter  that  night,  and  read  to  tlie  archdeacon 
all  that  she  had  written — with  the  exception  of 
the  postscript — "You  may  bo  quite  sure  that 
there  will  be  no  unpleasantness  with  your  fix- 
ther."  That  was  the  postscript  which  was  not 
communicated  to  the  archdeacon.  * 

On  the  third  day  after  that  Henry  Grantly 
did  come  over  to  Plumstead.  His  motiier  in  her 
letter  to  him  had  not  explained  how  it  had  come 
to  pass  that  the  sale  of  his  furniture  would  be 
unnecessaiy.  Ilis  father  had  given  him  to  un- 
derstand distinctly  that  his  income  would  be 
withdrawn  from  him  unless  he  would  express 
his  intention  of  giving  up  Miss  Crawley ;  and  it 
had  been  admitted  among  them  all  that  Cosby 
Lodge  must  be  abandoned  if  this  were  done. 
He  certainly  would  not  give  up  Grace  Crawley. 
Sooner  than  tliat,  he  would  give  up  every  stick 
in  his  possession  and  go  and  live  in  New  Zea- 
land if  it  were  necessary.  Not  only  had  Grace's 
conduct  to  him  made  him  thus  lirm,  but  the 
natural  bent  of  his  own  disposition  had  tended 
that  way  also.  His  father  had  attempted  to 
dictate  to  him,  and  sooner  tlian  submit  to  that 
he  would  sell  the  coat  off  his  back.  Had  his 
father  confined  his  opposition  to  advice,  and 
had  Miss  Crawley  been  less  firm  in  her  view  of 
her  duty,  the  major  might  have  been  less  firm 
also.  But  things  had  so  gone  that  he  was  de- 
termined to  be  fixed  as  granite.  If  others  would 
not  be  moved  from  their  resolves,  neither  would 
he.  Such  being  the  state  of  his  mind,  he  could 
not  understand  why  he  was  thus  summoned  to 
Plumstead.  He  had  already  written  over  to 
Pau  about  his  house,  and  it  was  well  that  he 


should,  at  any  rate,  see  his  mother  before  he 
started.  He  was  willing,  therefore,  to  go  to 
I'lumstead,  but  he  took  no  stcjjs  as  to  the  with- 
drawal of  those  auctioneer's  bills  to  which  the 
archdeacon  so  strongly  oljected.  When  he 
drove  into  the  rectory  yard  his  father  was  stand- 
ing there  before  him.  "Henry,"  he  said,  "I 
ani  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  coming."  Then  Henry  got 
out  of  his  cart  and  shook  hands  with  his  father, 
and  the  archdeacon  began  to  talk  about  the 
weather.  "Your  mother  has  gone  into  Bar- 
chestcr to  see  your  grandfather,"  said  the  arcli- 
deacon. "If  you  arc  not  tired  we  might  as 
well  take  a  walk.  I  want  to  go  up  as  far  as 
Flurry's  cottage."  The  major  of  course  de- 
clared that  he  was  not  at  all  tired,  and  that  ho 
shoidd  be  delighted  of  all  things  to  go  i\]>  and 
see  old  Flurry,  and  thus  they  started.  Young 
Grantly  had  not  even  been  into  the  house  be- 
fore he  left  the  yard  with  his  father.  Of  course 
he  was  thinking  of  the  coming  sale  at  Cosby 
Lodge,  and  of  his  future  life  at  Pau,  and  of  his 
injured  position  in  the  world.  There  would  be 
no  longer  any  occasion  for  him  to  he  solicitous 
as  to  the  Plumstead  foxes.  Of  course  these 
things  were  in  his  mind ;  but  he  could  not  be- 
gin to  speak  of  them  till  his  father  did  so.  "  I'm 
afraid  your  grandfather  is  not  very  strong,"  said 
the  archdeacon,  shaking  his  head.  "I  fear  ho 
won't  be  with  us  very  long." 

"Is  it  so  bad  as  that,  Sir?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  he  is  an  old  man,  Henry  ; 
and  he  was  always  somewhat  old  for  his  age. 
He  will  be  eighty  if  he  lives  two  years  longer, 
I  think.  But  he'll  never  reach  eighty — never. 
You  must  go  and  see  him  before  you  go  back 
home;  you  must  indeed."  The  major,  of  course, 
promised  that  he  would  see  his  grandfather,  and 
the  archdeacon  told  his  son  how  nearly  the  old 
man  had  fallen  in  the  passage  between  the  ca- 
thedral and  the  deanery.  In  this  way  they  had 
nearly  made  their  way  up  to  the  game-kec])er's 
cottage  without  a  word  of  reference  to  any  sub- 
ject that  touched  upon  the  matter  of  which  each 
of  them  was  of  course  thinking.  Whether  the 
major  intended  to  remain  at  home  or  to  live  at 
Pau,  the  subject  of  Mr.  Harding's  health  was  a 
natural  topic  for  conversation  between  him  and 
his  Ather ;  but  when  his  father  stopjied  sudden- 
ly, and  began  to  tell  him  how  a  fox  had  been 
trapped  on  Darvell's  farm — "and  of  course  it 
was  a  Plumstead  fox — there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Flurry  is  right  about  that"  —  when  the 
archdeacon  spoke  of  this  iniquity  with  much 
warmth,  and  told  his  son  how  he  had  at  once 
written  off  to  Mr.  Thorne  of  Ullathorne,  and 
how  Mr.  Thorne  had  declared  that  he  didn't 
believe  a  word  of  it,  and  how  Flurry  had  pro- 
duced the  pad  of  the  fox,  with  the  marks  of  the 
trap  on  the  skin — tiien  the  son  began  to  feel 
that  the  ground  Avas  becoming  very  warm,  and 
that  he  could  not  go  on  much  longer  without 
rushing  into  details  about  Grace  Crawley.  "I've 
no  more  doubt  that  it  was  one  of  our  foxes  than 
that  I  stand  here,"  said  the  archdeacon. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


261 


"It  doesn't  matter  where  the  fox  was  brcil. 
[  It  shoiiklii't  have  been  traijpcil,"  said  tlic  major. 
I  "  or  course  not,"  said  tlie  archdeacon,  indig- 

'       nantly.     I  wonder  whether  he  would  Iiave  been 
1       so  keen  had  a  Romanist  jjricst  come   into  Ins 
I       jiarisli  and  turned  one  of  his  Protestants  into  a 
Pai)ist  ? 

Then  Flurry  came  up,  and  produced  the  idcn- 

I       tical  ])ad  out  of  his  jwcket.      "I  don't  su]i]>osc 

j       it  was  intended,"  said  the  major,  looking  at  the 

interesting   relic   with    scrutinizing   eyes.      "I 

suppose  it  was  caught  in   a   rabbit-trap — eh, 

Flurry?" 

"I  don't  see  what  right  a  man  has  with  traps 
i       at  all,  when  gentlemen  is  particidar  about  their 
foxes,"  said  I'lurry.      "  Of  course  they'd  call  it 
rabbits." 

"I  never  liked  that  man  on  Darvell's  farm," 
said  the  archdeacon. 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Flurry.  "No  farmer 
ought  to  be  on  that  land  who  don't  have  a  horse 
of  his  own.  And  if  I  war  Squire  Thorne,  I 
wouldn't  have  no  farmer  there  who  didn't  keep 
no  horse.  When  a  farmer  has  a  horse  of  his 
own,  and  follies  the  hounds,  there  ain't  no  rab- 
bit-traps— never.  How  does  that  come  about, 
Mr.  Henry?  Rabbits!  I  know  very  well  what 
rabbits  is !" 

]\Ir.  Henry  shook  his  head,  and  turned  away, 
and  the  archdeacon  followe  1  him.  There  was 
an  hypocrisy  about  this  ]  ret  ended  care  for  the 
foxes  which  displeased  the  major.  He  could 
not,  of  course,  tell  his  father  that  the  foxes  were 
no  longer  any  thing  to  him ;  but  yet  he  must 
make  it  understood  that  such  was  his  convic- 
tion. His  mother  had  written  to  him,  saying 
tliat  the  sale  of  furniture  need  not  take  place. 
It  might  be  all  very  well  for  his  mother  to  say  that 
or  for  his  father;  but,  after  what  had  taken 
place,  he  could  consent  to  remain  in  England 
on  no  other  understanding  than  that  his  income 
should  be  made  permanent  to  him.  Such  per- 
manence must  not  be  any  longer  dependent  on 
his  father's  caprice.  In  these  days  lie  had  come 
to  be  somewhat  in  love  with  poverty  and  Pan, 
and  had  been  feeding  on  the  luxury  of  his  griev- 
ance. There  is,  perhnj  s,  nothing  so  jdeasant 
as  the  preparation  for  solf-saciifice.  To  give 
np  Cosby  Lodge  and  the  foxes,  to  marry  a 
penniless  wife,  and  go  and  live  at  Pan.  on  six  or 
seven  hundred  a  year,  seemed  just  now  to  Ma- 
jor Grantly  to  be  a  fine  thing,  and  he  did  not 
intend  to  abandon  this  fine  thing  without  receiv- 
ing a  very  clear  reason  for  doing  so.  "I  can't 
quite  understand  Thorne,"  said  the  archdeacon. 
"  He  used  to  be  so  particular  about  the  foxes, 
and  I  don't  suppose  that  a  country  gentleman 
will  change  his  ideas  because  he  has  given  np 
hunting  himself." 

"  Mr.  Thorne  never  thought  much  of  Flurry," 
said  Henry  Grantly,  with  his  mind  intent  upon 
Pau  and  his  grievance. 

"  He  might  take  my  word,  at  any  rate,"  said 
the  archdeacon. 

It  was  a  known  fact  that  the  archdeacon's 
solicitude  about  the  Plumstead  covers  was  wholly 


on  behalf  of  his  son  the  major.  The  major 
himself  knew  this  thoroughly,  and  felt  that  his 
fiither's  iirescnt  special  anxiety  was  intended  as 
a  corroboration  of  the  tidings  conveyed  in  his 
mother's  letter.  Every  word  so  uttered  was 
meant  to  have  reference  to  his  son's  future  resi- 
dence in  the  country.  "Father,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing round  shortly,  and  standing  before  the  arch- 
•  deacon  in  the  pathway,  "I  think  you  are  quite 
right  about  the  covers.  I  feci  sure  that  every 
gentleman  who  preserves  a  fox  does  good  to  the 
country.  I  am  sorry  that  I  shall  not  have  a 
closer  interest  in  the  matter  myself." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  have  a  closer  interest  in 
it?"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Because  I  shall  be  living  abroad." 

"You  got  your  mother's  letter?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  got  my  mother's  letter." 

"  Did  she  not  tell  you  that  you  can  stay  where 
you  are?" 

' '  Yes,  she  said  so.  But,  to  tell  3-on  the  truth, 
Sir,  I  do  not  like  the  risk  of  living  beyond  my 
assured  income." 

"But  if  I  justify  it?" 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  complain.  Sir,  but  you  have 
made  me  understand  that  you  can,  and  that  in 
certain  circumstancesyou  will,  at  a  moment,  with- 
draw what  you  give  me.  Since  this  was  said 
to  me  I  have  felt  myself  to  be  unsafe  in  such  a 
house  as  Cosby  Lodge." 

The  archdeacon  did  not  know  how  to  explain. 
He  had  intended  that  the  real  explanation 
should  be  given  by  Mrs.  Grantly,  and  had  been 
anxious  to  return  to  his  old  relations  with  his 
son  without  any  exact  terms  on  his  own  part. 
But  his  son  was,  as  he  thought,  awkward,  and 
would  drive  him  to  some  speech  that  was  un- 
necessary. "You  need  not  be  unsafe  there  at 
all,"  he  said,  half  angrily. 

"I  must  be  unsafe  if  I  am  not  sure  of  my  in- 
come." 

"  Your  income  is  not  in  any  danger.  But 
you  had  better  speak  to  your  mother  about  it. 
For  myself,  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  have  nev- 
er yet  behaved  to  any  of  you  with  harshness. 
A  son  should,  at  any  rate,  not  be  offended  be- 
cause a  father  thinks  that  he  is  entitled  to  some 
consideration  for  what  he  does." 

"  There  arc  some  points  on  which  a  son  can 
not  give  way  even  to  his  father.  Sir." 

"  You  had  better  speak  to  your  mother,  Hen- 
ry. She  will  exjilain  to  you  what  has  taken 
place.  Look  at  that  plantation.  You  don't  re- 
member it,  but  every  tree  there  was  planted 
since  you  were  born.  I  bought  that  farm  from 
old  !Mr.  Thome  when  he  was  purchasing  St. 
Ewold's  Downs,  and  it  was  the  first  bit  of  land  I 
ever  had  of  my  own." 

"That  is  not  in  Plumstead,  I  think." 

"No,  this  is  Plumstead,  where  we  stand,  but 
that's  in  Eiderdown.  The  parishes  run  in  and 
out  here.  I  never  bought  any  other  land  as 
cheap  as  I  bought  that." 

"And  did  old  Thorne  make  a  good  purchase 
at  St.  Ewold's  ?" 

"Yes,  I  fancy  he   did.     It   gave   him   the 


262 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


whole  of  the  parisli,  which  was  a  great  thing. 
It  is  astonishing  how  hmd  has  risen  in  vahic 
since  that,  and  yet  rents  arc  not  so  very  much 
liigher.  Tliey  who  huy  hind  now  can't  have 
above  two-and-a-half  fur  tlicir  money." 

"I  wonder  peojile  are  so  fond  of  land,"  said 
the  major. 

*'  It  is  a  comfortahle  feeling  to  know  that  you 
stand  on  your  own  ground.  Land  is  about  tlic 
only  tiling  that  can't  fly  away.  And  then,  you 
see,  land  gives  so  much  more  than  tlic  rent. 
It  gives  jiosition  and  influence  and  jiolitieal  ])ow- 
or,  to  say  nothing  about  the  game.  We'll  go 
back  now.  I  dare  say  your  inotlicr  will  be  at 
Lome  by  this  time." 

The  archdeacon  was  striving  to  teach  a  g-i'eat 
lesson  to  liis  son  when  he  fluis  sjwke  of  tiie 
jileasure  which  a  man  feels  wlien  he  stands  upon 
his  own  ground.  lie  was  bidding  his  son  to 
tmderstand  how  great  was  the  position  of  an 
heir  to  a  landed  property,  and  how  small  the 
position  of  a  man  depending  on  wliat  Dr.  Grant- 
ly  himself  would  have  called  a  scratch  income 
— an  income  made  up  of  a  few  odds  and  ends, 
a  share  or  two  in  tliis  company,  and  a  share  or 
two  in  that,  a  sliglit  venture  in  foreign  stocks, 
a  small  mortgage,  and  such  like  convenient  but 
iinintlucntial  dribblets.  A  man,  no  doubt,  may 
live  at  Pan  on  dribblets  ;  may  pay  his  way,  and 
drink  his  bottle  of  clieap  wine,  and  enjoy  life  aft- 
er a  fasliion  while  reading  (Jalir/nani  and  look- 
ing at  the  mountains.  But — as  it  seemed  to 
the  arclidcaeon — when  there  was  a  choice  be- 
tween this  kind  of  thing,  and  fox-covers  at  Plum- 
stead,  and  a  seat  among  the  magistrates  of  Bar- 
setshire,  and  an  establishment  full  of  horses, 
beeves,  swine,  carriages,  and  hayricks,  a  man 
brought  up  as  his  son  had  been  brought  up 
ought  not  to  be  very  long  in  choosing.  It  never 
entered  into  the  archdeacon's  mind  that  he  was 
tempting  his  son  ;  but  Henry  Grantly  felt  that 
he  was  having  the  good  things  of  the  world 
shown  to  him,  and  that  he  was  being  told  that 
they  should  be  his — for  a  consideration. 

The  major,  in  his  present  mood,  looked  at 
the  matter  from  his  own  point  of  view,  and  de- 
termined that  the  consideration  was  too  high. 
He  was  pledged  not  to  give  np  Grace  Crawle}', 
and  he  would  not  yield  on  that  ])oint  though  he 
might  be  tempted  by  all  the  fox-covers  in  Bar- 
setshire.  At  this  moment  he  did  not  know  how 
far  his  father  was  prepared  to  yield,  or  how  far 
it  was  expected  that  he  should  yield  himself. 
He  was  told  that  he  had  to  speak  to  his  mother. 
He  would  speak  to  his  mother,  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  make  a  com- 
fortable answer  to  his  father's  eloquent  praise 
of  landed  property.  He  could  not  allow  himself 
to  be  enthusiastic  on  the  matter  till  he  knew 
what  was  expected  of  him  if  he  chose  to  submit 
to  be  made  a  British  squire.  At  present  Gallg- 
nuni  and  the  mountains  had  their  charms  for 
him.  There  was,  therefore,  but  little  conver- 
sation between  tlie  father  and  the  son  as  they 
walked  back  to  tlie  rectory. 

Late  that  night  the  major  heard  the  wh&lo 


story  from  his  mother.  Gradually,  and  as 
though  unintentionally,  Mrs.  Grantly  told  him 
all  she  knew  of  the  archdeacon's  visit  to  Fram- 
ley.  !Mrs.  Grantly  was  quite  as  anxious  as  was 
lier  husband  to  keep  her  son  at  home,  and  tliere- 
fore  she  omitted  in  her  story  those  little  sneers 
against  Grace  which  she  herself  had  been  tempt- 
ed to  make  by  the  archdeacon's  fervor  in  the 
girl's  favor.  The  major  said  as  little  as  was 
possible  while  he  was  being  told  of  his  father's 
adventure,  and  expressed  neither  anger  nor 
satisfaction  till  he  had  been  made  thorough!}'  to 
understand  that  Grace  had  jiledged  lierstdf  not 
to  marry  him  as  long  as  any  suspicion  sliould 
rest  upon  her  father's  name. 

"  Your  father  is  (piite  satisfied  with  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly.  "lie  thinks  that  she  is  behav- 
ing very  well." 

"  My  father  had  no  right  to  exact  such  a 
pledge." 

"But  she  made  it  of  her  own  accord.  She 
was  the  first  to  speak  about  Mr.  Crawley's  sup- 
posed guilt.     Your  father  never  mentioned  it." 

"  He  must  have  led  to  it;  and  I  think  he  had 
no  right  to  do  so.  He  had  no  right  to  go  to  her 
at  all." 

"Now  don't  be  foolish,  Henry." 

"I  don't  see  that  I  am  foolish." 

"Yes,  you  are.  A  man  is  foolish  if  he  won't 
take  what  he  wants  without  asking  exactly  how 
he  is  to  come  by  it.  That  your  fatlier  should  be 
anxious  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
You  know  how  high  he  has  always  held  his 
own  head,  and  how  much  he  thinks  about  the 
characters  and  position  of  clergymen.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  he  should  dislike  the  idea  of  such 
a  marriage." 

"Grace  Crawley  would  disgrace  no  family," 
said  the  lover. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  and  I'll 
take  your  word  that  it  is  so — that  is  as  far  as 
the  young  lady  goes  herself.  And  there's  your 
father  almost  as  much  in  love  with  her  as  you 
are.     I  don't  know  what  you  would  have." 

"I  would  be  left  alone." 

"But  what  harm  has  been  done  you  ?  From 
what  you  yourself  have  told  me,  I  know  tliat 
Miss  Crawley  has  said  the  same  thing  to  you 
that  she  has  said  to  her  father.  You  can't  but 
admire  her  for  the  feeling." 

"I  admire  her  for  every  thing." 

"Very  well.  We  don't  say  any  thing  against 
that." 

"And  I  don't  mean  to  give  her  up." 

"Very  well  again.  Let  us  hope  tliat  Mr. 
Crawley  will  be  acquitted,  and  then  all  will  be 
right.  Your  father  never  goes  back  from  his 
promise.  He  is  always  better  than  his  word. 
You'll  find  that  if  Mr.  Crawley  is  acquitted,  or 
if  he  escapes  in  any  way,  your  father  will  only 
be  happy  of  an  excuse  to  make  much  of  the 
young  lady.  You  should  not  be  hard  on  liim, 
Henry.  Don't  you  see  tliat  it  is  his  one  great 
desire — to  keep  you  near  to  him?  The  sight 
of  those  odious  bills  nearly  broke  his  lieart." 

"Then  why  did  he  threaten  me?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


2G3 


"Henry,  you  arc  obstinate." 

"I  am  not  obstinate,  motlier." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  You  remember  notliinp,  niid 
you  forget  nothing.  Y'ou  expect  every  thing  to 
be  made  smooth  for  you,  and  will  do  notliing 
toward  making  things  smootli  for  any  body  else. 
You  ought  to  promise  to  give  up  the  sale.  If 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  your  father  would 
not  let  you  suffer  in  pocket  for  yielding  to  Iiim 
in  so  mucli." 

"If  tiic  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  wish  to 
take  notliing  from  my  fother." 

"You  won't  put  oft' the  sale,  then?'' 

The  son  paused  a  moment  before  lie  answered 
his  mother,  thinking  over  all  the  circumstances 
of  his  position.  "I  can  not  do  so  as  long  as  I 
am  subject  to  my  father's  threat,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "  What  took  place  between  mj'  father  and 
Miss  Crawley  can  go  for  nothing  with  me.  He 
has  told  me  that  his  allowance  to  me  is  to  be 
withdrawn.  Let  him  tell  me  that  he  has  re- 
considered the  matter." 

"But  he  has  not  withdrawn  it.  The  last 
quai'ter  was  paid  to  your  account  only  the  other 
day.     He  does  not  mean  to  withdraw  it." 

"Let  him  tell  me  so;  let  him  tell  me  that 
my  power  of  living  at  Cosby  Lodge  does  not 
depend  on  my  marriage — that  my  income  will 
be  continued  to  mc  whether  I  marry  or  no, 
and  I'll  arrange  matters  witli  the  auctioneer  to- 
morrow. Y'ou  can't  suppose  that  I  should  pre- 
fer to  live  in  France." 

"Henry,  you  are  too  hard  on  your  father." 

*'I  think,  mother,  he  has  been  too  hard  upon 
mc." 

"  It  is  j'ou  that  arc  to  blame  now.  I  tell  j'ou 
plainly  that  that  is  my  opinion.  If  evil  comes 
of  it  it  will  be  your  own  fault." 

"  If  evil  come  of  it  I  must  bear  it." 

"A  son  ought  to  give  up  something  to  his 
flither — especially  to  a  father  so  indulgent  as  i 
yours."  I 

But  it  was  of  no  use.     And  Mrs.  Grantly  | 
when  she  went  to  her  bed  could  only  lament  in  ' 
her  own  mind  over  what,  in  discussing  the  mat- 
ter  afterward  with  her   sister,  she  called   the 
cross-grainedness  of  men.      "  They  are  as  like  i 
each  otlier  as  two  peas,"  she  said,  "and  though 
each  of  them  wished  to  be  generous,  neither  of  j 
them  would  condescend  to  be  just."     Early  on 
the   following   morning   there   was,  no   doubt,  i 
much  said  on  the  subject  between  the  archdea- 
con and  his  wife  before  they  met  iheir  son  at  j 
breakfast ;  but  neither  at  breakfast  nor  afterward 
was  there  a  word  said  between  the  father  and 
son  that  had  the  slightest  reference  to  the  sub-  , 
ject  in  dispute  between  them.     Tlie  archdeacon  1 
made  no  more  speeches  in  faVor  of  land,  nor 
did  he  revert  to  the  foxes.     He  was  very  civil 
to  his  son — too  civil  by  half,  as  Mrs.  Grantly 
continued  to  say  to  herself.     And  then  the  ma- 
jor drove  himself  aw.iy  in  his  cart,  going  tlirough  i 
Barchester,  so  that  he  might  see  his  grandfather,  j 
When  he  wislied  liis  father  good-by,  the  arch- 
deacon shook  hands  with  him,  and  said  some- 
thing about  the  chance  of  rain.     Had  he  not  i 


better  take  the  big  umbrella?  The  major 
thanked  liim  courteously,  and  said  that  he  did 
not  think  it  would  rain.  Then  he  was  gone. 
"Upon  his  own  head  be  it,"  said  the  arclidca- 
con  when  his  son's  step  was  heard  in  the  ])assagc 
leading  to  the  back-yard.  Then  Mrs.  Grantly 
got  up  quietly  and  fullowed  her  son.  She  found 
him  settling  himself  in  his  dog-cart,  while  the 
servant  who  was  to  accompany  him  was  still 
at  the  horse's  head.  She  went  up  close  to  him, 
and,  standing  by  the  wheel  of  the  gig,  whispered 
a  word  or  two  into  his  ear.  "  If  you  love  me, 
Henry,  you  will  postpone  the  sale.  Do  it  for 
my  sake."  There  came  across  his  face  a  look 
of  great  pain,  but  he  answered  her  not  a  word. 

TIic  archdeacon  was  walking  about  the  room 
striking  one  hand  open  with  the  otlicr  closed, 
clearly  in  a  tumult  of  anger,  when  his  wife  re- 
turned to  him.  "I  have  done  all  that  I  can," 
he  said — "  all  that  I  can  ;  more,  indeed,  than 
was  becoming  for  me.  Upon  his  own  head  be 
it !     Upon  his  own  head  be  it  I" 

"  Wiiat  is  it  that  you  fear?"  she  asked. 

"  I  fear  nothing.  But  if  he  chooses  to  sell 
his  things  at  Cosby  Lodge  he  must  abide  tlic 
consequences.  They  shall  not  be  replaced  with 
my  money." 

"  Wliat  will  it  matter  if  he  does  sell  them?" 

"Matter!  Do  you  think  there  is  a  single 
person  in  the  county  who  will  not  know  that  his 
doing  so  is  a  siga  that  he  has  quarreled  with 
me?" 

"  But  he  has  not  quarreled  with  you." 

"I  can  tell  you,  then,  that  in  tliat  case  I 
shall  have  quarreled  with  him  !  I  have  not 
been  a  hard  father,  but  there  are  some  things 
which  a  man  can  not  bear.  Of  couife  you  will 
take  his  part." 

"I  am  taking  no  part.  I  only  v^ant  to  sec 
peace  between  you." 

"Peace! — yes;  peace  indeed.  I  am  to 
yield  in  every  thing.  I  am  to  be  nobody.  Look 
here — as  sure  as  ever  an  auctioneer's  hammer  is 
raised  at  Cosby  Lodge  I  will  alter  the  settle- 
ment of  the  property.  Every  acre  shall  belong 
to  Charles.  There  is  my  word  for  it."  The 
poor  woman  had  nothing  more  to  say — nothing 
more  to  say  at  that  moment.  She  thought  that 
at  the  present  conjuncture  her  husband  was  less 
in  the  wrong  than  her  son,  but  slie  couLl  not 
tell  him  so  lest  she  should  strengthen  him  in  his 
wrath. 

Henry  Grantly  found  his  grandfiither  in  bed, 
witli  Posy  seated  on  the  bed  beside  him.  "  I\Iy 
fother  told  me  tliat  you  were  not  quite  well,  and 
I  thought  that  I  would  look  in,"  said  the  major. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear — it  is  very  good  of 
you.  There  is  not  much  the  matter  with  me, 
but  I  am  not  quite  so  strong  as  I  was  once." 
And  the  old  man  smiled  as  he  held  his  grand- 
son's hand. 

"And  how  is  cousin  Posy?"  said  the  ma- 
jor. 

"Posy  is  quite  well — isn't  she,  my  darling?" 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Grandpa  doesn't  go  to  the  cathedral  now,'' 


264  THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"UONOB  TUY   FATIIF.K— THAT   TUY   DAYS   MAY   BS   LONG    IN   THE   LAND.' 


said  rosy;  "  so  I  come  in  to  talk  to  him.  Don't 
I,  grandpa?" 

"And  to  play  cat's-cradle— only  we  have  not 
had  any  cat's-cradle  this  morning — have  we, 
Posy?" 

"  Mrs.  Baxter  told  me  not  to  play  this  morn- 
ing;,  because  it's  cold  for  grandpa  to  sit  up  in 
bed,"  said  Posy. 

AVlicn  the  major  had  been  there  about  twenty 
minutes  he  was  preparing  to  take  his  leave,  but 
Mr.  Harding,  bidding  Posy  to  go  out  of  the  room, 


told  his  grandson  that  he  had  a  word  to  say  to 
him.  "I  don't  like  to  interfere,  Henry,"  ha 
said,  "  but  I  arti  afraid  that  things  are  not  quite 
smooth  at  Plumstead." 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  betAveen  me  and 
my  mother,"  said  the  major. 

"God  forbid  that  there  should  be!  but,  my 
dear  boy,  don't  let  there  be  any  thing  wrong  be- 
tween you  and  your  father.  He  is  a  good  man, 
and  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  be  proud 
of  his  memory." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


265 


"I  am  proud  of  him  now." 

"Then  be  gentle  with  him — and  submit 
yourself.  I  am  an  old  man  now — very  fast  go- 
ing away  from  all  those  I  love  here.  But  I  am 
happy  in  leaving  my  children  because  they  have 
ever  been  gentle  to  me  and  kind.  If  I  am  per- 
mitted to  remember  them  whither  I  am  going 
my  thoughts  of  them  will  all  be  pleasant.  Should 
it  not  be  much  to  them  that  they  have  made 
my  death-bed  happy?" 

The  major  could  not  but  tell  himself  that  Mr. 
Harding  had  been  a  man  easy  to  please,  easy  to 
satisfy,  and  in  that  respect  very  different  from 
his  father.  But  of  course  he  said  nothing  of 
this.      "  I  will  do  my  best,"  he  replied. 

"  Do,  my  boy.  Honor  thy  father — that  thv/ 
days  may  be  long  in  the  land." 

It  seemed  to  the  major  as  he  drove  away  from 
Barchestcr  that  every  body  was  against  him  ; 
and  yet  he  was  sure  that  he  himself  was  right. 
He  could  not  give  up  Grace  Crawley ;  and  un- 
less he  were  to  do  so  he  could  not  live  at  Cosby 
Lodge. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

A   LADT   PRESENTS    HER   COMPLIMENTS   TO   MISS 
L.  D. 

One  morning,  while  Lily  Dale  was  staying 
with  Mrs.  Thome  in  London,  there  was  brought 
up  to  her  room,  as  she  was  dressing  for  dinner, 
a  letter  which  the  postman  had  just  left  for  her. 
The  address  was  written  with  a  feminine  hand, 
and  Lily  was  at  once  aware  that  she  did  not 
know  the  writing.  The  angles  were  very  acute, 
and  the  lines  were  very  straight,  and  the  vowels 
looked  to  be  cruel  and  false,  with  their  sharp 
points  and  their  open  eyes.  Lily  at  once  knew 
that  it  was  the  performance  of  a  woman  who 
had  been  taught  to  write  at  school  and  not  at 
home,  and  she  became  prejudiced  against  the 
writer  before  she  opened  the  letter.  When  she 
had  opened  the  letter  and  read  it  her  Teelings 
toward  the  writer  were  not  of  a  kindly  nature. 
It  was  as  follows  : 

"  A  lady  presents  her  compliments  to  Miss 
L.  D.,  and  earnestly  implores  Miss  L.  D.  tOi 
give  her  an  answer  to  the  following  question  :  Is' 
Miss  L.  D.  engaged  to  marry  Mr.  J.  E.?  The 
lady  in  question  pledges  herself  not  to  interfere 
with  Miss  L.  D.  in  any  way  should  the  answer 
be  in  the  affirmative.  The  lady  earnestly  re- 
quests that  a  reply  to  this  question  may  be  sent 
to  M.  D.,  Post-office,  455  Edgeware  Road.  In 
order  that  L.  D.  may  not  doubt  that  M.  D.  has 
an  interest  in  J.  E.,  M.  D.  incloses  the  last 
note  she  received  from  him  before  he  started  for 
the  Continent."  Then  there  was  a  scrap,  which 
Lily  well  knew  to  be  in  the  handwriting  of 
John  Eames,  and  the  scrap  was  as  follows : 
"  Dearest  M. — Punctually  at  8.30 — ever  and 
always  your  unalterable  J.  E."  Lily,  as  she  read 
this,  did  not  comprehend  that  John's  note  to,- 
M.  D.  had  been  in  itself  a  joke. 

Lily  Dale  had  heard  of  anonvmous   letters 
R 


before,  but  had  never  received  one,  or  even  seen 
one.  Now  that  she  had  one  in  her  hatid,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  there  could  be  nothing  more 
abominable  than  the  writing  of  such  a  letter. 
She  let  it  drop  from  her  as  though  the  receiv- 
ing, and  opening,  and  reading  it  had  been  a 
stain  to  her.  As  it  lay  on  the  ground  at  her 
feet  she  trod  upon  it.  Of  what  sort  could  a 
woman  be  who  would  write  such  a  letter  as  that  ? 
Answer  it !  Of  course  she  would  not  answer  it. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  for  a  moment  that  it 
could  become  her  to  answer  it.  Had  she  been 
at  home  or  with  her  mother  she  would  have 
called  her  mother  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Dale  would 
have  taken  it  from  the  ground,  and  have  read  it, 
and  tlien  destroyed  it.  As  it  was,  she  must 
pick  it  up  herself.  She  did  so,  and  declared  to 
herself  that  there  should  be  an  end  to  it.  It 
might  be  right  that  somebody  should  see  it,  and 
therefore  she  would  show  it  to  Emily  Dunstable. 
After  that  it  should  be  destroyed. 

Of  course  the  letter  could  have  no  effect  upon 
her.  So  she  told  herself.  But  it  did  have  a 
very  strong  effect,  and  pi-obably  the  exact  effect 
which  the  writer  had  intended  that  it  should 
have.  J.  E.  was,  of  course,  John  Eames. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  that.  What  a  fool 
the  writer  must  have  been  to  talk  of  L.  D.  in 
the  letter,  when  the  outside  cover  was  plainly 
addressed  to  Miss  Lilian  Dale !  But  there  are 
some  people  for  whom  the  pretended  mystery 
of  initial  letters  has  a  charm,  and  who  love 
the  darkness  of  anonymous  letters.  As  Lily 
thought  of  this  she  stamped  on  the  letter  again. 
Who  was  the  M.  D.  to  whom  she  was  required 
to  send  an  answer — with  whom  John  Eames 
corresponded  in  the  most  affectionate  terms  ? 
She  had  resolved  that  she  would  not  even  ask 
herself  a  question  about  M.  D.,  and  yet  she 
could  not  divert  her  mind  from  the  inquiry.  It 
was,  at  any  rate,  a  fact  that  there  must  be  some 
woman  designated  by  the  letters — some  woman 
who  had,  at  any  rate,  chosen  to  call  herself 
M.  D.  And  John  Eames  had  called  her  M. 
There  must,  at  any  rate,  be  such  a  woman. 
This  female,  be  she  who  she  might,  had  thought 
it  worth  her  while  to  make  this  inquiry  about 
John  Eames,  and  had  manifestly  learned  some- 
thing of  Lily's  own  history.  And  the  woman 
had  pledged  herself  not  to  inteifere  with  John 
Eames  if  L.  D.  would  only  condescend  to  say 
that  she  was  engaged  to  him !  As  Lily  thought 
of  the  proposition  she  trod  upon  the  letter  for 
the  third  time.  Then  she  picked  it  up,  and 
having  no  place  of  custody  under  lock  and  key 
ready  to  her  hand,  she  put  it  in  her  pocket. 

At  night,  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  showed 
the  letter  to  Emily  Dunstable.  "Is  it  not  sur- 
prising that  any  woman  could  bring  herself  to 
write  such  a  letter  ?"  said  Lily. 

But  Miss  Dunstable  hardly  saw  it  in  the  same 
light.  "  If  any  body  were  to  write  me  such  a 
letter  about  Bernard,  "said  she,  "  I  should  show 
it  to  him  as  a  good  joke." 

"  That  would  be  very  different.  You  and 
Bernard,  of  course,  understand  each  other." 


266 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


"And  so  will  voii  and  Mr.  Eames — some  day, 
I  hope." 

"Never  more  than  \vc  do  now,  dear.  The 
thinj:;  that  annoys  nie  is  that  such  a  woman  as 
that  should  have  even  heard  my  name  at  all." 

"As  long  as  jjeoplo  have  pot  cars  and  tongues 
jieople  will  hear  other  people's  names." 

Lily  ])aused  a  monioiit,  and  then  spoke  again, 
asking  anotiicr  (picstion.  '"I  su])pose  this  wo- 
man does  know  him?  .She  must  know  him,  he- 
cause  he  has  written  to  her." 

"She  knows  something  ahout  him,  no  doubt, 
and  has  some  reason  Cor  wishing  that  you  should 
quarrel  with  liim.  If  I  were  you  I  should  take 
care  not  to  gratify  her.  As  for  Mr.  Eames's 
note,  it  is  a  joke." 

"It  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  Lily. 

"I  snjjpose,"  continued  Emily,  "that  most 
gentleman  become  acquainted  with  some  people 
that  they  would  not  wish  all  their  friends  to 
know  that  they  knew.  They  go  about  so  niucli 
more  than  we  do,  and  meet  people  of  all  sorts." 

"No  gentleman  should  become  intimately 
acquainted  witii  a  woman  who  could  write  sucli 
a  letter  as  that,"  said  Lily.  And  as  she  spoke 
she  remembered  a  certain  episode  to  John 
Eames's  early  life,  which  liad  reached  her  from 
a  source  which  she  had  not  doubted,  and  wliich 
had  given  her  pain  and  offended  her.  She  had 
believed  tiiat  John  Eames  had  in  that  case  be- 
haved cruelly  to  a  young  woman,  and  had 
thought  that  her  offense  had  come  simi)ly  from 
that  feeling.  "But  of  course  it  is  nothing  to 
me,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Eames  can  choose  his 
friends  as  he  likes.  I  only  wish  that  my  name 
might  not  be  mentioned  to  them." 

"It  is  not  from  him  that  she  has  heard  it." 

"Perhaps  not.  As  I  said  before,  of  course 
it  docs  not  signify  ;  only  there  is  something  very 
disagreeable  in  the  whole  thing.  The  idea  is 
so  hateful!  Of  course  this  woman  means  mc 
to  understand  that  she  considers  herself  to  have 
a  claim  upon  Mr.  Eames,  and  that  I  stand  in 
her  way." 

"And  why  should  you  not  stand  in  her  way  ?" 

"  I  will  stand  in  nobody's  way.  Mr.  Eames 
has  a  right  to  give  his  hand  to  any  one  that  he 
pleases.  I,  at  any  rate,  can  have  no  cause  of 
offense  against  him.  The  only  thing  is  that  I 
do  wish  that  my  name  could  be  left  alone." 
Lily,  when  slie  was  in  lier  own  room  again,  did 
destroy  the  letter ;  but  before  she  did  so  she 
read  it  again,  and  it  became  so  indelibly  im- 
pressed on  her  memory  that  she  could  not  forget 
even  the  words  of  it.  The  lady  who  wrote  had 
pledged  herself,  under  certain  conditions,  "not 
to  interfere  with  Miss  L.  D."  "Interfere  with 
me  !"  Lily  said  to  herself;  "  nobody  can  inter- 
fere with  me  ;  nobody  has  power  to  do  so."  As 
she  turned  it  over  in  her  mind  her  heart  became 
hard  against  John  Eames.  No  woman  would 
have  troubled  herself  to  write  sucli  a  letter  with- 
out some  cause  for  the  writing.  That  the  writer 
was  vulgar,  false,  and  unfcminine  Lily  thouglit 
that  she  could  jjerceive  from  the  letter  itself; 
but  no  doubt  the  woman  knew  John  Eames,  had 


some  interest  in  the  question  of  iiis  marriage 
and  was  entitled  to  some  answer  to  her  question 
— only  was  not  entitled  to  such  answer  from 
Lily  Dale. 

For  some  weeks  past  now,  nj)  to  the  hour  at 
which  this  anonymous  letter  had  reached  her 
hands,  Lily's  heart  had  been  growing  soft  and 
fitill  softer  toward  John  Eames ;  and  now  again 
it  had  become  hardened.  I  think  that  the  ap- 
pearance of  Adolplms  Crosbie  in  tlie  jfark— that 
momentary  vision  of  the  real  man  by  which- the 
divinity  of  the  imaginary  Apollo  had  been  dash- 
ed to  the  ground^ — had  done  a  service  to  the 
cause  of  the  other  lover ;  of  the  lover  who  had 
never  been  a  god,  but  who  of  late  years  had  at 
any  rate  grown  into  the  full  dimensions  of  a 
man.  Unfortunately  for  the  latter,  he  liad  com- 
menced his  love-making  when  he  was  but  little 
more  than  a  boy.  Lily,  as  she  had  thought  of 
the  two  together,  in  the  days  of  her  solitude, 
after  she  had  been  deserted  by  Crosbie,  had  ever 
pictured  to  herself  the  lover  whom  she  had  pre- 
ferred as  having  something  godlike  in  his  favor, 
as  being  far  the  superior  in  wit,  in  manner,  in 
acquirement,  and  in  personal  advantage.  There 
had  been  good-nature  and  true  hearty  love  on 
the  side  of  the  other  man ;  but  circumstances 
had  seemed  to  show  tliat  his  good-nature  was 
equal  to  all,  and  that  he  was  able  to  share  even 
his  hearty  love  among  two  or  three.  A  man  of 
such  a  character,  known  ])y  a  girl  from  his  boy- 
hood as  John  Eames  had  been  known  by  Lily 
Dale,  was  likely  to  find  more  favor  as  a  friend 
than  as  a  lover.  So  it  had  been  between  John 
Fames  and  Lily.  While  the  untrue  memory 
of  what  Crosbie  was,  or  ever  had  been,  was  pres- 
ent to  her,  she  could  hardly  bring  herself  to  ac- 
cept in  her  mind  the  idea  of  a  lover  who  was 
less  noble  in  his  manhood  than  tlie  false  picture 
which  that  untrue  memory  was  ever  painting 
for  her.  Then  had  come  before  her  eyes  the 
actual  man ;  and  though  he  had  been  seen  but 
for  a  moment,  tlie  false  image  had  been  bioken 
into  shivers.  Lily  had  discovered  that  she  had 
been  deceived,  and  that  her  forgiveness  had  been 
asked,  not  by  a  god,  but  by  an  ordinary  human 
being.  As  regarded  the  ungodlike  man  him- 
self, this  could  make  no  difference.  Having 
thought  upon  the  matter  deeply,  she  had  re- 
solved that  she  would  not  marry  Mr.  Crosbie, 
and  had  pledged  herself  to  that  effect  to  friends 
who  never  could  have  brought  themselves  to  feel 
affection  for  him,  even  had  she  married  him. 
But  the  shattering  of  the  false  image  might  have 
done  John  Eames  a  good  turn.  Lily  knew  that 
she  had  at  any  rate  full  permission  from  all  her 
friends  to  throw  in  her  lot  with  his — if  she  could 
persuade  herself  to  do  so.  Mother,  uncle,  sis- 
ter, brother-in-law,  cousin — and  now  this  new 
cousin's  bride  that  was  to  be — together  with 
Lady  Julia  and  a  whole  crowd  of  Allington  and 
Guestwick  friends,  were  in  flivor  of  such  a  mar- 
riage. There  had  been  nothing  against  it  but 
the  foct  that  the  other  man  had  been  dearer  to 
her  ;  and  that  other  fact  that  poor  Johnny  lack- 
ed something — something  of  earnestness,  some- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


267 


thing  of  manliness,  somethinjij  of  tliat  Pliosbus 
divinity  with  wliich  t'rosbie  had  contrived  to 
invest  his  own  image.  Bnt,  as  I  have  said 
above,  Jolin  had  gradually  grown,  if  not  into 
divinity,  at  least  into  manliness  ;  and  tlie  shat- 
tering of  the  false  image  had  done  him  yeoman's 
service.  Now  had  come  this  accursed  letter, 
and  Lily,  despite  herself,  dcsi)ite  her  better  judg- 
ment, could  not  sweep  it  away  from  her  mind 
and  make  the  letter  as  nothing  to  her.  JL  I). 
had  promised  not  to  interfere  witli  her !  There 
was  no  room  for  such  interference,  no  possibility 
that  such  interference  should  take  ])lace.  She 
hoped  earnestly — so  she  told  herself — that  her 
old  friend  John  Eames  might  have  nothing  to  do 
with  a  woman  so  impudent  and  vulgar  as  must 
be  this  i\I.  D.  ;  but  except  as  regarded  old  friend- 
ship, M.  D.  and  John  Eames,  apart  or  together, 
could  be  as  nothing  to  her.  Therefore  I  say 
that  the  letter  had  had  the  effect  which  the  writer 
of  it  had  desired. 

All  London  was  new  to  Lily  Dale,  and  Mrs. 
Thornc  was  very  anxious  to  show  her  every 
thing  that  could  be  seen.  She  was  to  return 
to  Allington  before  the  flowers  of  May  would 
have  come,  and  the  crowd  and  the  glare  and 
the  fashion  and  the  art  of  the  Academy's  great 
exhibition  must  therefore  remain  unknown  to 
her ;  but  she  was  taken  to  see  many  pictures, 
and  among  others  she  was  taken  to  see  the  pic- 
tures belonging  to  a  certain  nobleman  who,  with 
that  munificence  which  is  so  amply  enjoyed 
and  so  little  recognized  in  England,  keeps  open 
house  for  the  world  to  see  the  treasures  which 
the  wealth  of  his  family  has  collected.  The 
necessary  order  was  procured,  and  on  a  certain 
brilliant  April  afternoon  Mrs.  Thorne  and  her 
party  found  themselves  in  this  nobleman's  draw- 
ing-room. Lily  was  with  her,  of  course,  and 
Emily  Dunstable  was  there,  and  Bernard  Dale, 
and  Mrs.  Thome's  dear  friend,  ]\Irs.  Harold 
Smitli,  and  Mrs.  Thome's  constant  and  useful 
attendant,  Siph  Dunn.  They  had  nearly  com- 
pleted their  delightful  but  wearying  task  of  gaz- 
ing at  pictures,  and  Mrs.  Harold  Smith  had  de- 
clared that  she  would  not  look  at  another  paint- 
ing till  the  exhibition  was  open ;  three  of  the 
ladies  were  seated  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
Siph  Dunn  was  standing  before  them,  lecturing 
about  art  as  thougli  he  had  been  brought  up  on 
the  ancient  masters ;  Emily  and  Bernard  were 
lingering  behind,  and  the  others  were  simply 
delaying  their  departure  till  the  truant  lovers 
should  have  cauglit  them.  At  this  moment 
two  gentlemen  entered  the  room  from  the  gal- 
lery, and  the  two  gentlemen  were  Fowler  Pratt/ 
and  Adolphus  Crosbie. 

All  the  party  except  Mrs.  Thome  knew  Cros- 
bie personally,  and  all  of  them  except  Mrs.  Har- 
old Smitii  knew  something  of  the  story  of  what 
had  occurred  between  Crosbie  and  Lily.  Siph 
Dunn  had  learned  it  all  since  the  meeting  in  the 
park,  having  nearly  learned  it  all  from  what  he 
had  seen  there  with  his  eyes.  But  Mrs.  Thorne, 
who  knew  Lily's  story,  did  not  know  Crosbie's 
ajipearancc.     But  there  was  his  friend  Fowler 


Pratt,  who,  as  will  bo  remembered,  had  dined 
with  her  but  the  otiicr  day ;  and  she,  with  that 
outsjioken  and  somewliat  loud  impulse  wliich 
was  natural  to  her,  addressed  him  at  once  across 
the  room,  calling  him  by  uame.  Had  she  not 
done  so  the  two  men  might  probably  have  es- 
caped through  the  room,  in  which  case  they 
would  have  met  Bernard  Dale  and  Emily  Dun- 
stable in  the  doorway.  FowIq-  Pratt  would  have 
endeavored  so  to  escape,  and  to  carry  Crosbie 
with  him,  as  he  was  quite  alive  to  the  ex])edi- 
cnce  of  saving  Lily  from  such  a  meeting.  But, 
as  things  turned  out,  escape  from  Mrs.  Thorne 
was  impossible. 

"There's  Fowler  Pratt,"  she  had  said  when 
they  first  entered,  quite  loud  enough  for  Fowler 
Pratt  to  hear  her.  "Mr.  Pratt,  come  here. 
How  d'ye  do?  You  dined  with  me  last  Tues- 
day, and  you've  never  been  to  call." 

"I  never  recognize  that  obligation  till  after 
the  middle  of  May,"  said  Mr.  Pratt,  shaking 
hands  with  Mrs.  Thornc  and  Mrs.  Smith,  and 
bowing  to  Miss  Dale. 

"I  don't  see  the  justice  of  that  at  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Thorne.  "It  seems  to  me  that  a  good 
dinner  is  as  much  entitled  to  a  morsel  of  paste- 
board in  April  as  at  any  other  time.  You  won't 
have  another  till  you  have  called — unless  you're 
specially  wanted." 

Crosbie  would  have  gone  on  but  that  in  his 
attempt  to  do  so  he  passed  close  by  the  chair  on 
which  Mrs.  Harold  Smith  was  sitting,  and  that 
he  was  accosted  by  her.  "Mr.  Crosbie,"  she 
said,  "  I  haven't  seen  yon  for  an  age.  Has  it 
come  to  pass  that  you  have  buried  yourself  en- 
tirely ?"  He  did  not  know  how  to  extricate 
himself  so  as  to  move  on  at  once.  He  paused, 
and  hesitated,  and  then  stopped,  and  made  an 
attempt  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Smith  as  though  he  were 
at  his  ease.  The  attempt  was  any  thing  but 
successful;  but  having  once  stopped  he  did  not 
know  how  to  put  himself  in  motion  again  so 
that  he  might  escape.  At  this  moment  Ber- 
nard Dale  and  Emily  Dunstable  came  up  and 
joined  the  group  ;  but  neither  of  them  had  dis- 
covered who  Crosbie  was  till  they  were  close 
upon  him. 

Lily  was  seated  between  Mrs.  Thorne  and 
Mrs.  Smith,  and  Siph  Dunn  had  been  standing 
immediately  opposite  to  them.  Fowler  Pratt, 
who  had  been  drawn  into  the  circle  against  his 
will,  was  now  standing  close  to  Dunn,  almost 
between  him  and  Lily — and  Crosbie  was  stand- 
ing within  two  yards  of  Lily,  on  the  other  side 
of  Dunn.  Emily  and  Bernard  had  gone  behind 
Pratt  and  Crosbie  to  Mrs.  Thome's  side  before 
they  had  recognized  the  two  men — and  in  this 
way  Lily  was  completely  surrounded.  Mrs. 
Thorne,  who,  in  spite  of  her  eager,  impetuous 
ways,  was  as  thoughtful  of  otiiers  as  any  woman 
could  be,  as  soon  as  she  heard  Crosbie's  name 
understood  it  all,  and  knew  that  it  would  be 
well  that  she  should  withdraw  Lily  from  her 
plight.  Crosbie,  in  his  attempt  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Smith,  had  smiled  and  simpered — and  had  then 
felt  that  to  smile  and  simper  before  Lily  Dale, 


268 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


with  a  prctciidod  indifference  to  her  presence, 
was  false  on  liis  jiart,  and  would  seem  to  be 
mean.  Ho  would  have  avoided  Lily  for  both 
their  sakes  had  it  been  ])ossible ;  but  it  was  no 
lonjjcr  possible,  and  he  could  not  kecj)  his  eves 
from  her  face.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he 
bowed  to  her,  lifted  liis  hat,  and  uttered  some 
word  of  greeting. 

Lily,  from  the  nioment  that  she  had  perceived 
his  jircscnoe,  had  looked  straight  before  her, 
witli  something  almost  of  fierceness  in  her  eyes. 
Both  I'ratt  and  Siidi  Dunn  had  observed  her 
narrowly.  It  had  seemed  as  though  Crosbio 
had  been  altogether  outside  the  ken  of  her  eyes 
or  the  notice  of  her  ears,  and  yet  she  had  seen 
every  motion  of  his  body,  and  had  heard  every 
word  which  had  fallen  from  his  lips.  Now, 
when  he  saluted  her,  she  turned  her  face 
full  iipon  him,  and  bowed  to  him.  Then  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  and  made  her  way,  between 
Sipli  Dunn  and  I'ratt,  out  of  the  circle.  The 
blood  had  mounted  to  her  face  and  suffused  it 
all,  and  her  whole  manner  was  such  that  it 
could  escape  the  observation  of  none  who  stood 
there.  Even  Mrs.  Harold  Smith  had  seen  it, 
and  had  read  the  story.  As  soon  as  she  was  on 
her  feet  Bernard  had  dropped  Emily's  hand, 
and  offered  his  arm  to  his  cousin.  "Lily,"  he 
had  said  out  loud,  "you  had  better  let  me  take 
you  away.  It  is  a  misfortune  that  you  have 
been  subjected  to  the  insult  of  such  a  greeting." 
Bernard  and  Crosbio  had  been  early  friends, 
and  Bernard  had  been  the  unfortunate  means 
of  bringing  Crosbie  and  Lil}'  together.  Up  to 
this  day  Bernard  had  never  liad  his  revenge  for 
the  ill-treatment  which  his  cousin  had  received. 
Some  morsel  of  that  revenge  came  to  him  now. 
Lily  almost  hated  her  cousin  for  what  he  said ; 
but  she  took  his  arm,  and  walked  with  him 
from  the  room.  It  must  be  acknowledged  in 
excuse  for  Bernard  Dale,  and  as  an  apology 
for  the  apparent  indiscretion  of  his  words,  that  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  meeting  had  become 
ap])arent  to  every  one  there.  The  misfortune 
of  the  encounter  had  become  too  ])lain  to  admit 
of  its  being  hidden  under  any  of  the  ordinarj"- 
veils  of  society.  Crosbie's  salutation  had  been 
made  before  the  eyes  of  them  all,  and  in  the 
midst  of  absolute  silence,  and  Lily  had  risen 
with  so  queen-like  a  demeanor,  and  had  moved 
with  so  stately  a  step,  that  it  was  impossible 
that  anj'  one  concerned  should  pretend  to  ignore 
the  facts  of  the  scene  that  had  occurred.  Cros- 
bie was  still  standing  close  to  Mrs.  Harold 
Smith,  Mrs.  Thornc  had  risen  from  her  seat, 
and  the  words  which  Bernard  Dale  had  uttered 
were  still  sounding  in  the  ears  of  them  all. 
"  Shall  I  sec  after  the  carriage  ?"  said  Siph  Dunn. 
"Do,"  saidMrs.  Thorne;  "or,  staya  moment; 
the  carriage  will  of  course  be  there,  and  we  will 
go  together.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Pratt.  I  ex- 
pect that,  at  any  rate,  you  will  send  me  your 
card  by  post."  Then  they  all  passed  on,  and 
Crosbie  and  Fowler  Pratt  were  left  among  the 
pictures. 

"I  think  vou  Avill  agree  with  me  now  that 


you  had  better  give  her  tip,"  said  Fowler 
Pratt. 

"  I  will  never  give  her  up,"  said  Crosbie,  "  till 
I  shall  hear  that  she  has  married  some  one  else." 

"  You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  that  she. will 
never  marry  you  after  what  has  just  now  oc- 
curred." 

"Very  likely  not :  but  still  the  attempt,  even 
the  idea  of  the  attempt,  will  be  a  comfort  to  me. 
I  shall  be  endeavoring  to  do  that  which  I  ougiit 
to  have  done." 

"What  you  have  got  to  think  of,  I  should 
suppose,  is  her  comfort — not  your  own." 

Crosbie  stood  for  a  while  silent,  looking  at  a 
portrait  which  was  hung  just  within  the  doorway 
of  a  smaller  room  into  which  they  had  passed, 
as  though  his  attention  were  entirely  riveted  by 
the  picture.  But  he  was  thinking  of  the  pic- 
tiu'e  not  at  all,  and  did  not  even  know  what 
kind  of  painting  was  on  the  canvas  before  him. 

"Pratt,"  said  he,  at  last,  "you  are  always 
hard  to  me." 

"I  will  say  nothing  more  to  you  on  the  sub- 
ject if  you  wish  me  to  be  silent." 

"  I  do  wish  you  to  be  silent  about  that." 

"  That  shall  be  enough,"  said  Pratt. 

"You  do  not  quite  understand  me.  You  do 
not  know  how  tiioroughly  I  have  repented  of  the 
evil  that  I  have  done,  or  how  far  I  would  go  to 
make  retribution,  if  retribution  were  possible!" 

Fowler  Pratt,  having  been  told  to  hold  his 
tongue  as  regarded  that  subject,  made  no  reply 
to  this,  and  began  to  talk  about  the  pictures. 

Lily,  leaning  on  her  cousin's  arm,  was  out  in 
the  court-yard  in  front  of  the  house  before  Mrs. 
Thome  or  Siph  Dunn.  It  was  but  for  a  min- 
ute, but  still  there  was  a  minute  in  whicli  Ber- 
nard felt  that  he  ought  to  say  a  word  to  her. 

'•  I  hope  you  are  not  angry  with  me,  Lily, 
for  having  spoken." 

"  I  wish,  of  course,  that  you  had  not  spoken ; 
but  I  am  not  angry.  I  have  no  right  to  be  an- 
gry. I  made  the  misfortune  for  myself.  Do 
not  say  any  thing  more  about  it,  dear  Bernard ; 
that  is  all." 

They  had  walked  to  the  picture-gallery ;  but, 
by  agreement,  two  carriages  had  come  to  take 
them  away — Mrs.  Thome's  and  JMrs.  Harold 
Smith's.  Mrs.  Thornc  easily  managed  to  send 
Emily  Dunstable  and  Bernard  away  with  lier 
friend,  and  to  tell  Siph  Dunn  that  he  must 
manage  for  himself.  In  this  way  it  was  con- 
trived that  no  one  but  Mrs.  Thorne  should  be 
Avith  Lily  Dale. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  "it  seemed  to 
me  that  you  were  a  little  put  out,  and  so  I 
thought  it  best  to  send  them  all  away." 

"It  was  very  kind." 

"He  ought  to  have  passed  on,  and  not  to  hava 
stood  an  instant  when  he  saw  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Thorne,  with  indignation.  "There  are  mo- 
ments when  it  is  a  man's  duty  simply  to  vanish, 
to  melt  into  the  air,  or  to  sink  into  the  ground 
— in  which  he  is  bound  to  overcome  tlie  diffi- 
culties of  such  sudden  self-removal,  or  must 
ever  after  be  accounted  poor  and  mean." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


269 


"I  did  not  want  him  to  vanish — if  only-he 
had  not  spoken  to  me." 

"lie  should  have  vanished.  A  man  is  some- 
times bound  in  lienor  to  do  so,  even  when  he 
himself  has  done  nothing  wrong — when  the  sin 
has  been  all  with  the  woman.  Her  femininity 
has  still  a  right  to  expect  that  so  much  shall  be 
done  in  its  behalf.  But  when  the  siu  has  been 
all  his  own,  as  it  was  in  this  case — and  such 
damning  sin  too — " 

"Tray  do  not  go  on,  Mrs.  Thorne." 

"  He  ought  tot^o  out  and  hang  himself  sim- 
ply for  having  allowed  himself  to  be  seen.  I 
thouglit  Bernard  beliaved  very  well,  and  I  shall 
tell  him  so." 

"I  wish  you  could  manage  to  forget  it  all, 
and  say  no  word  more  about  it." 

"I  won't  trouble  you  witli  it,  my  dear;  I 
will  promise  you  that.  But,  Lily,  I  can  hardly 
understand  you.  This  man  who  must  have  been 
and  must  ever  be  a  brute — " 

"Mrs.  Thorne,  you  promised  me  this  instant 
that  you  would  not  talk  of  him." 

"  After  this  I  will  not;  but  you  must  let  me 
have  my  way  noV  for  one  moment.  I  have  so 
often  longed  to  speak  to  you,  but  have  not  done 
so  from  fear  of  oflending  you.  Now  the  mat- 
ter lias  come  up  by  chance,  and  it  was  impossi- 
ble that  what  has  occurred  should  jiass  by  with- 
out a  word.  I  can  not  conceive  wliy  the  mem- 
ory of  that  bad  man  should  be  allowed  to  destroy 
your  whole  life." 

"  My  life  is  not  destroyed.  My  life  is  any 
thing  but  destroyed.     It  is  a  very  hajipy  life." 

"But,  my  dear,  if  all  that  I  hear  is  true, 
there  is  a  most  estimable  young  man,  whom 
every  body  likes,  and  particularly  all  your  own 
family,  and  whom  you  like  very  much  yourself; 
and  you  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,  though 
liis  constancy  is  like  the  constancy  of  an  old 
Paladin — and  all  because  of  this  wretch  who 
just  now  came  in  your  way." 

"Mrs.  Thorne,  it  is  impossible  to  explain  it 
all." 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  explain  it  all.  Of 
course  I  would  not  ask  any  young  woman  to 
marry  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love.  Such 
marriages  are  abominable  to  me.  But  I  think 
that  a  young  woman  ought  to  get  married  if  the 
thing  fairly  comes  in  her  way,  and  if  her  friends 
approve,  and  if  she  is  fond  of  the  man  who  is 
fond  of  her.  It  may  be  that  some  memory  of 
what  has  gone  before  is  allowed  to  stand  in  your 
way,  and  that  it  should  not  be  so  allowed.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  a  morbid  sentiment 
will  destroy  a  life.  Excuse  me,  then,  Lily,  if 
I  say  too  much  to  you  in  my  hope  that  you  may 
not  suffer  after  this  fashion." 

"  I  know  how  kind  you  are,  Mrs.  Thorne." 

"Here  we  are  at  home,  and  perliaps  you 
would  like  to  go  in.  I  have  some  calls  which 
I  must  make."  Then  the  conversation  was 
ended,  and  Lily  was  alone. 

As  if  she  had  not  thought  of  it  all  before ! 
As  if  there  was  any  thing  new  in  this  counsel 
which  Mrs.  Thorne  had  given  her!     She  had 


received  the  same  advice  from  her  mother,  from 
her  sister,  fi-om  her  uncle,  and  from  Lady  Julia, 
till  she  was  sick  of  it.  How  had  it  come  to  pass 
that  matters  which  with  others  are  so  private 
should  with  her  have  become  the  public  prop« 
erty  of  so  large  a  circle  ?  Any  other  girl  would 
receive  advice  on  such  a  subject  from  her  mo- 
ther alone,  and  tlicre  the  secret  would  rest. 
But  her  secret  had  been  ])ublished,  as  it  were, 
by  the  town-crier  in  tlie  High  Street!  Every 
body  knew  that  she  had  been  jilted  by  Adolphus 
Crosbie,  and  that  it  was  intended  that  she  should 
be  consoled  by  John  Eames.  And  ])cople  seemed 
to  think  that  they  had  a  right  to  rebuke  her  if 
she  expressed  an  unwillingness  to  carry  out  this 
intention  which  the  ])ublic  had  so  kindly  ar- 
ranged for  her. 

Morbid  sentiment !  Why  should  she  be  ac- 
cused of  morbid  sentiment  because  she  was  un- 
able to  transfer  her  aft'ections  to  the  man  who 
had  been  fixed  on  as  her  future  husband  by  the 
large  circle  of  acquaintance  wlio  had  interested 
themselves  in  her  affairs  ?  There  was  nothing 
morbid  in  either  her  desires  or  her  regrets.  So 
she  assured  herself,  with  something  very  like  an- 
ger at  the  accusation  made  against  her.  She 
had  been  contented,  and  was  contented,  to  live 
at  home  as  her  mother  lived,  asking  for  no  ex- 
citement beyond  that  given  by  the  daily  routine 
of  her  duties.  There  could  be  nothing  morbid 
in  that.  She  would  go  back  to  Allington  as 
soon  as  might  be,  and  have  done  with  this  Lon- 
don life,  which  only  made  her  wretched.  This 
seeing  of  Crosbie  had  been  terrible  to  her.  She 
did  not  tell  herself  that  his  image  had  been 
shattered.  Her  idea  was  that  all  her  misery 
had  come  from  the  nntowardness  of  the  meet- 
ing. But  there  was  the  fact  that  she  had  seen 
the  man  and  heard  his  A'oice,  and  tliat  the  see- 
ing him  and  heaving  him  had  made  her  miser- 
able. She  certainly  desired  that  it  might  never 
be  her  lot  either  to  see  him  or  to  hear  him 
again. 

And  as  for  John  Eames — in  those  bitter  mo- 
ments of  her  reflection  she  almost  wished  the 
same  in  regard  to  him.  If  he  would  only  cease 
to  be  her  lover  he  might  be  very  well ;  but  he 
was  not  very  well  to  her  as  long  as  his  preten- 
sions were  dinned  into  her  ear  by  every  body 
who  knew  her.  And  then  she  told  herself  that 
John  would  have  had  a  better  chance  if  he  had 
been  content  to  plead  for  himself.  In  this,  I 
think,  she  was  hard  upon  her  lover.  He  had 
pleaded  for  himself  as  well  as  he  knew  how,  and 
as  often  as  the  occasion  had  been  given  to  him. 
It  had  hardly  been  his  fault  that  his  case  had 
been  taken  in  hand  by  other  advocates.  He  had 
given  no  commission  to  Mrs.  Thorne  to  plead 
for  hira. 

Poor  Johnny !  He  had  stood  in  much  better 
favor  before  the  lady  had  presented  her  compli- 
ments to  Miss  L.  D.  It  was  that  odious  letter, 
and  the  tlioughts  which  it  had  forced  upon  Lily's 
mind,  which  were  now  most  inimical  to  his  in- 
terests. Whether  Lily  loved  liitn  or  not,  she 
did  not  love  him  well  enough  not  to  be  jealous 


270 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  HAKSET. 


of  him.     Had  nny  such  letter  reached  her  re- 
specting Crosby  in  the  liapjiy  days  of  iier  young 
love  she  would  siuijily  have  laughed  at  it.     It 
would  have  been  nothing  to  her.     But  now  she 
was  sore  and  unhajjpy,  and  any  trifle  was  pow- 
erful enough  to  irritate  her.      "  Is  Miss  L.  1). 
engaged  to    marry  Mr.  J.  E.  ?"     "No,"  said 
Lily,  out  loud,  "Lily  Dale  is  not  engaged  to  I 
marry  John  Eamcs,  and  never  will  be  so  en- 
gaged."    She  was  almost  tempted  to  sit  down 
and  write  the  required  answer  to  Miss  M.  D.  j 
Tiiough  the  letter  had  been  destroyed,  she  well  j 
remembered  the  numlierof  the  ])ost-()fHce  in  the 
Edgcwarc  lioad.      I'oor  John  ICanies  ! 

That  evening  she  told  Emily  Dunstable  that 
she  thought  siic  would  like  to  return  to  Ailing-  , 
ton  before  the  day  tliat  had  been  appointed  for  I 
her.      "15ut  why,''  said  Emily,  "  should  you  be 
worse  than  your  word?"  ! 

"I  ilarc  say  it  will  seem  silly,  but  the  fact  is 
I  am  homesick.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  be 
away  from  mamma  for  so  long." 

"I  hoi)e  it  is  not  what  occurred  to-day  at  the 
])icturc-gallery." 

"  I  won't  deny,tliat  it  is  that  in  part." 

"  That  was  a  strange  accident,  you  kilow,  that 
might  never  occur  again." 

"It  has  occurred  twice  already,  Emily." 

"I  don't  call  the  aftair  in  the  park  any  thing. 
Any  body  may  see  any  body  else  in  the  park,  of 
course.  He  was  not  brought  so  near  you  that 
he  could  annoy  you  there.  You  ouglit  certain- 
Iv  to  wait  till  Mr.  Eames  has  come  back  from 
Italy." 

Then  Lily  declared  that  she  must  and  would 
go  back  to  Allington  on  the  next  Monday,  and 
she  actually  did  write  a  letter  to  her  mother 
that  night  to  say  that  such  was  her  intention. 
But  on  the  morrow  lier  heart  was  less  sore,  and 
the  letter  was  not  sent. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

THE  END  OF  JAEL  AND  SISERA. 

There  was  to  be  one  more  sitting  for  the  pic- 
ture, as  rlie  reader  will  remember,  and  the  day 
for  that  sitting  had  arrived.  Conway  Dalrym- 
ple  had  in  the  mean  time  called  at  Mrs.  Van 
Siever's  house,  hoping  that  he  might  be  able  to 
see  Clara,  and  make  his  offer  to  her  there.  But 
he  had  failed  in  his  attempt  to  reach  her.  lie 
had  found  it  impossible  to  say  all  that  he  had  to 
say  in  the  painting-room  during  the  very  short 
intervals  which  Mrs.  Broughton  left  to  him.  A 
man  should  be  .allowed  to  be  alone  more  tlian 
fifteen  minutes  with  a  young  lady  on  the  occa- 
sion in  which  he  offers  to  her  liis  hand  and  his 
heart ;  but  hitherto  he  had  never  had  more  than 
fifteen  minutes  at  his  command  ;  and  then  there 
had  been  the  turban  !  He  had  also  in  the  mean 
time  called  on  Mrs.  Broughton,  with  the  intention 
of  explaining  to  her  that  if  she  really  intended 
to  favor  his  views  in  respect  to  IMiss  Van  Sie- 
ver  she  ought  to  give  him  a  little  more  liberty 
for  expressing  himself.     On  this  occasion  lie 


had  seen  his  friend,  but  had  not  been  able  to  go 
as  minutely  as  he  Iiad  wished  into  the  matter  that 
was  so  important  to  himself.  ]\Irs.  Broughton 
had  found  it  necessary  during  this  meeting  to 
talk  almost  exclusively  about  herself  and  her 
own  affairs.  "Conway,"  she  had  said,  directly 
she  saw  him,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !  I 
think  I  should  have  gone  mad  if  I  had  not  seen 
some  one  who  cares  for  me."  This  was  early 
in  the  morning,  not  much  after  eleven,  and 
Mrs.  Broughton,  hearing  first  his  knock  at  the 
door,  and  then  his  voice,  had  met  him  in  the 
hall  and  taken  him  into  the  dining-room. 

"Is  any  thing  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  Conway !" 

"What  is  it?  Has  any  thing  gone  wrong 
with  Dobbs?" 

"  Every  thing  has  gone  wrong  with  him.  He 
is  ruined." 

"Heaven  and  earth  !     What  do  you  mean ?" 

"  Simply  wdiat  I  say^  But  you  must  not 
speak  a  word  of  it.  I  do  not  know  it  from  him- 
self." 

"  How  do  you  know  it?" 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Sit  down  there,  will  you? 
— and  I  will  sit  by  you.  No,  Conway ;  do  not 
tnke  my  hand.  It  is  not  right.  There — so. 
Yesterday  Mrs.  Van  Siever  was  here.  I  need 
not  tell  you  all  that  she  said  to  me,  even  if  I 
could.  She  was  very  harsh  and  cruel,  saying 
all  manner  of  things  about  Dobbs.  How  can  I 
help  it  if  he  drinks?  I  have  not  encouraged 
him.  And  as  for  expensive  living,  I  have  been 
as  ignorant  as  a  child.  I  have  never  asked  for 
any  thing.  When  we  were  married  somebody 
told  me  how  much  we  should  have  to  spend.  It 
was  either  two  tliousand,  or  tliree  thousand,  or 
four  thousand,  or  something  like  that.  You 
know,  Conway,  how  ignorant  I  am  about  money 
— that  I  am  like  a  child.     Is  it  not  true?"     She 


THK  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


271 


waited  for  an  answer,  and  Dalrymple  was  obliged 
to  acknowledge  that  it  was  true.  And  yet  he 
had  known  the  times  in  which  his  dear  friend 
had  been  very  sharp  in  her  memory  with  refer- 
ence to  a  few  pounds.  ' '  And  now  slic  says  that 
Dobbs  owes  her  money  which  he  can  not  pay 
her,  and  that  every  thin;^  must  be  sold.  She 
says  that  Mussclboro  must  have  tlie  business, 
and  that  Dobbs  must  shift  for  liimself  elsewhere." 

"Do  you  believe  that  she  has  the  power  to 
decide  that  things  shall  go  this  way  or  that — as 
she  pleases?" 

"  How  am  I  to  know?  She  says  so,  and  she 
says  it  is  because  he  drinks.  He  does  drink. 
That  at  least  is  true ;  but  how  can  I  help  it  ? 
Oh,  Conway,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Dobbs  did  not 
come  home  at  all  last  night,  but  sent  for  his 
tilings,  saying  that  he  must  stay  in  the  City. 
What  am  I  to  do  if  they  come  and  take  the 
house,  and  sell  the  furniture,  and  turn  me  out 
into  the  street?"  Then  the  poor  creature  be- 
gan to  cry  in  earnest,  and  Dalrymple  had  to 
console  her  as  best  he  might.  "  How  I  wish  ^ 
had  known  you  first!"  she  said.  To  this  Di»1- 
rymple  was  able  to  make  no  direct  answer.  He 
•was  wise  enough  to  know  that  a  direct  answer 
might  possibl}'  lead  him  into  terrible  trouble. 
He  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  find  himself 
"  protecting"  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  from  the 
ruin  which  her  lyisband  had  brought  upon  her. 

Before  he  left  her  she  had  told  him  a  long 
story,  partly  of  matters  of  which  he  had  known 
something  before,  and  partly  made  up  of  that 
which  she  had  heard  from  the  old  woman.  It 
was  settled,  Mi-s.  Broughton  said,  tliat  Mr.  Mus-, 
selboro  was  to  marry  Clara  Van  Siever.  But 
it  appeared,  as  far  as  Dalrymple  could  learn, 
that  this  was  a  settlement  made  simply  between 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  and  Mussclboro.  Clara,  as  he 
thought,  was  not  a  girl  likely  to  fall  into  such  a 
settlement  without  having  an  ojjinion  of  her 
own.  Mussclboro  was  to  have  the  business, 
and  Dobbs  Broughton  was  to  be  "sold  up,"  and 
then  look  for  employment  in  the  City.  From 
her  husband  the  wife  had  not  heard  a  word  on 
this  matter,  and  the  above  story  was  simjjly 
what  had  been  told  to  Mrs.  Broughton  by  Mrs. 
Van  Siever.  "For  myself  it  seems  that  there 
can  be  biit  one  fate,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton.  Dal- 
rymple, in  his  tenderest  voice,  asked  what  that 
one  fate  must  be.  "Never  mind,"  said  Mrs. 
Broughton.  "There  are  some  things  which 
one  can  not  tell  even  to  such  a  friend  as  you." 
He  -was  sitting  near  her,  and  liad  all  but  got  his 
arm  behind  her  waist.  He  was,  however,  able 
to  be  prudent.  "Maria,"  he  said,  getting  up 
on  his  feet,  "  if  it  should  really  come  about  that 
you  should  want  any  thing,  you  will  send  to  me. 
You  will  promise  me  that,  at  any  rate?"  She 
rubbed  a  tear  from  her  eye,  and  said  that  she 
did  not  know.  "There  are  moments  in  which 
a  man  must  speak  plainly,"  said  Conway  Dal- 
rvmple — "  in  which  it  would  be  unmanly  not  to 
do  so,  however  prosaic  it  may  seem.  I  need 
hardly  tell  you  that  my  purse  shall  be  yours  if 
you  want  it."     But  just  at  that  moment  she  did 


not  want  his  pur.se,  nor  must  it  be  sui)poscd  that 
she  wanted  to  run  away  with  him  and  to  leave 
her  husband  to  fight  the  battle  alone  with  Mrs. 
Van  Siever.  The  truth  was  that  she  did  not 
know  what  she  wanted,  over  and  beyond  an  as- 
surance from  Conway  Dalrymple  that  she  was 
the  most  ill-used,  the  most  interesting,  and  the 
most  beautiful  woman  ever  heard  of,  either  in 
history  or  romance.  Had  he  projiosed  to  her  to 
pack  up  a  bundle  find  go  off  with  him  in  a  cab 
to  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  railway  sta- 
tion, en  route  for  Boulogne,  I  do  not  for  a  mo- 
ment think  that  she  would  liave  packed  up  her 
bundle.  She  would  have  received  intense  grat- 
ification from  the  offer— so  much  so  that  she 
would  have  been  almost  consoled  for  her  hus- 
band's ruin  ;  but  she  would  have  scolded  her 
lover,  and  would  have  explained  to  him  the  great 
iniquity  of  which  he  was  guilty. 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  at  this  present  time 
he  could  not  make  any  special  terms  with  her 
as  to  Clara  Van  Siever.  At  such  a  moment  as 
this  he  could  hardly  ask  her  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  in  order  that  he  might  have  his  opjrortuni- 
ty.  But  when  he  suggested  that  probably  it 
might  be  better,  in  the  present  emergency,  to 
give  up  the  idea  of  any  further  sitting  in  her 
room,  and  proposed  to  send  for  his  canvas,  color- 
box,  and  easel,  she  told  him  that,  as  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  he  was  welcome  to  have  that 
one  other  sitting  for  which  they  had  all  bargained. 
"You  had  better  come  to-morrow,  as  we  had 
agreed,"  she  said;  "and  unless  I  shall  have 
been  turned  out  into  the  street  by  the  creditors, 
you  may  have  the  room  as  you  did  before. 
And  you  must  remember,  Conway,  that  though 
Mrs.  Van  says  that  Mussclboro  is  to  have  Clara, 
it  doesn't  follow  that  Clara  should  give  way.'' 
When  we  consider  every  thing,  we  must  ac- 
knowledge- that  this  was,  at  any  rate,  good-na- 
tured. Then  there  was  a  tender  parting,  with 
many  tears,  and  Conway  Dalrymple  escaped 
from  the  house. 

He  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  the  truth  of 
the  story  which  Mrs.  Broughton  had  told,  as  far, 
at  least,  as  it  referred  to  the  ruin  of  Dobbs 
Broughton.  He  had  heard  something  of  this 
before,  and  for  some  weeks  had  expected  that 
a  crash  was  coming.  Broughton's  rise  had 
been  very  sudden,  and  Dalrymple  had  never  re- 
garded his  friend  as  firmly  placed  in  the  com- 
mercial world.  Dobbs  was  one  of  those  men 
who  seem  born  to  surprise  the  world  by  a  spurt 
of  prosperity,  and  might,  perhaps,  have  had  a 
second  spurt,  or  even  a  third,  could  he  have 
kept  himself  from  drinking  in  the  morning. 
But  Dalrymple,  though  he  was  hardly  astonisli- 
ed  by  the  story,  as  it  regarded  Broughton,  was 
put  out  by  that  part  of  it  which  had  reference 
to  Musselboro.  He  had  known  that  IMusselboro 
had  been  introduced  to  Broughton  by  Mrs.  Van 
Siever,  but,  nevertheless,  he  had  regarded  the 
man  as  being  no  more  than  Broughton's  clerk. 
And  now  he  was  told  that  Musselboro  was  to 
marry  Clara  Van  Siever,  and  have  all  Mrs.  Van 
Sievcr's  monev.     He  resolved,  at  last,  tliat  he 


272 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OE  BAKSET. 


would  run  his  risk  about  the  money,  and  ti\ke 
Ch\ra  either  with  or  witliout  it,  if  she  would 
have  him.  And  as  for  that  difliculty  in  asking 
hoc,  if  Mrs.  Eroughton  would  give  liim  no  op- 
portunity of  putting  the  question  behind  her 
hack,  he  would  put  it  before  her  face.  He  had 
not  much  leisure  for  consideration  on  these 
points,  as  the  next  day  was  the  day  for  the  last 
sitting. 

On  the  following  morning  he  found  Miss  Van 
Sicver  already  seated  in  Mrs.  IJroughton's  room 
when  he  reached  it.  And  at  the  moment  Mrs. 
Broughton  was  not  there.  As  he  took  Clara's 
hand  he  could  not  prevent  himself  from  asking 
her  whether  she  had  hoard  any  thing  ?  "  Heard 
what  ?"  said  Clara.  ''Then  you  have  not,"  said 
he.  "Never  mind  now,  as  Mrs.  Broughton  is 
here."  Then  Mrs.  Broughton  had  entered  the 
room.  She  seemed  to  be  quite  cheerful,  but 
Dalrymj)le  ])erfectly  understood,  from  a  special 
glance  which  she  gave  to  him,  that  he  was  to 
jicrceive  that  her  cheerfulness  was  assumed  for 
Clara's  benefit.  Mrs.  Broughton  was  showing 
how  great  a  heroine  she  could  be  on  behalf  of 
her  friends.  "Now,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "do 
remember  that  this  is  the  last  da)'.  It  may  be 
all  very  well,  Conway,  and  of  course  you  know 
best ;  but  as  far  as  I  can  see,  you  have  not  made 
half  as  much  progress  as  you  ought  to  have 
done."  "We  shall  do  excellently  well,"  said 
Dalrymple.  "So  much  the  better,"  said  Mrs. 
Broughton;  " and  now,  Clara,  I'll  place  you." 
And  so  Clara  was  placed  on  her  knees,  with  the 
turban  on  her  head. 

Dalrymple  began  his  work  assiduously,  know- 
ing that  Mrs.  Broughton  would  not  leave  the 
room  for  some  minutes.  It  was  certain  tliat  she 
would  remain  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  it 
might  be  as  well  that  he  should  really  use  that 
time  on  his  jiicture.  The  peculiar  position  in 
which  he  was  placed  probably  made  his  work 
difHcult  to  him.  There  was  something  perplex- 
ing in  the  necessity  which  bound  him  to  look 
upon  the  young  lady  before  him  both  as  Jael 
and  as  the  future  Mrs.  Conway  Dalrymple, 
knowing  as  he  did  that  she  was  at  present  sim- 
ply Clara  Van  Siever.  A  double  personification 
was  not  difficult  to  him.  He  had  encountered 
it  with  every  model  that  had  sat  to  him,  and 
with  every  young  lady  he  had  attemjjted  to  win 
— if  he  had  ever  made  such  an  attempt  with  one 
before.  But  the  triple  character,  joined  to  the 
necessity  of  the  double  work,  was  distressing  to 
him.  "The  hand  a  little  further  back,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  he  said,  "and  the  wrist  more 
turned  toward  me.  That  is  just  it.  Lean  a 
little  more  over  him.  There — that  will  do  ex- 
actly." If  Mrs.  Broughton  did  not  go  very 
quickly  he  must  begin  to  address  his  model  on 
a  totally  ditferent  subject,  even  while  she  was  in 
the  act  of  slaying  Sisera. 

"  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  who  is  to  be 
Sisera,"  asked  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"I  think  I  shall  put  in  my  own  face,"  said 
Dalrymple;  "if  Miss  Van  Siever  does  not  ob- 
ject." 


"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Clara,  speaking  with- 
out moving  her  face — almost  without  moving 
her  lij^s. 

"That  will  be  excellent,"  said  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton. She  was  still  quite  cheerful,  and  really 
laughed  as  she  spoke.  "Shall  you  like  the 
idea,  Clara,  of  striking  the  nail  right  through 
his  head  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  as  well  his  head  as  another's.  I 
shall  seem  to  be  having  my  revenge  for  all  the 
trouble  he  has  given  me." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  Dalrymple 
si)oke.  "You  have  had  that  already,  in  striking 
me  right  througli  the  heart." 

"What  a  very  j)retty  speech!  Was  it  not, 
my  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Broughton.  And  then 
Mrs.  Broughton  laughed.  There  was  something 
slightly  hysterical  in  her  laugh  which  grated  on 
Dalrymple's  ears — something  which  seemed  to 
tell  him  that  at  the  present  moment  his  dear 
friend  was  not  going  to  assist  him  honestly  iu 
his  effort. 

"Only  that  I  should  put  him  out,  I  wonkl  get 
up  and  make  a  courtesy,  "said  Chira.  No  young 
lad}'  could  ever  talk  of  making  a  courtesy  for  such 
a  speech  if  she  supposed  it  to  have  been  made  in 
earnestness.  iVnd  Clara,  no  doubt,  understood 
that  a  man  might  make  a  hundred  such  speeches 
in  the  jjrcscnce  of  a  third  ]>crson  without  any 
danger  that  they  Avould  be  taken  as  meaning 
any  thing.  All  this  Dalrymjjle  knew,  and  be- 
gan to  think  that  he  had  better  ])Ut  down  his 
pallet  and  brush,  and  do  the  work  which  he 
had  before  liim  in  the  most  prosaic  language 
that  he  could  use.  He  could,  at  any  rate,  suc- 
ceed in  making  Clara  acknowledge  his  intention 
in  this  way.  He  waited  still  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  Mrs.  Broughton 
had  no  intention  of  piling  her  fagots  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion.  It  might  be  that  the  remembrance 
of  her  husband's  ruin  prevented  her  from  sac- 
rilicing  herself  in  the  other  direction  also. 

"I  am  not  very  good  at  pretty  speeches,  but 
I  am  good  at  telling  the  truth,"  s;iid  Dalrymjile. 
"Ha,  ha,  ha  1"  laughed  Mrs.  Broughton,  still 
with  a  touch  of  hysterical  action  in  her  throat. 
"  Upon  my  word,  Conway,  you  know  how  to 
jjraise  yourself." 

"  He  disi)raises  himself  most  unnecessarily  in 
denying  the  prettiness  of  his  language,"  said 
Clara.  As  she  spoke  she  hardly  moved  her  lips, 
and  Dalrymple  went  on  painting  from  the  model. 
It  was  clear  that  Miss  Van  Siever  understood 
that  the  painting,  and  not  the  pretty  speeches, 
was  the  important  business  on  hand. 

Mrs.  Broughton  had  now  tucked  her  feet  up 
on  the  sofii,  and  was  gazing  at  the  artist  as  he 
stood  at  his  work.  Dalrymple,  remembering 
how  he  had  offered  her  his  purse— an  offer  which, 
in  the  existing  crisis  of  her  affairs,  might  mean 
a  great  deal — felt  that  she  was  ill-natured.  Had 
she  intended  to  do  him  a  good  turn  she  would 
have  gone  now ;  but  there  she  lay,  with  her  feet 
tucked  up,  clearly  purposing  to  be  present 
through  the  whole  of  that  morning's  sitting. 
His  anger  against  her  added  something  to  his 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


273 


spirit,  and  made  him  determine  that  he  would 
carry  out  his  purpose.  Suddenly,  therefore,  he 
pre|)ared  himself  for  action. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  working  with  a  Turk- 
ish cap  on  his  head,  and  with  a  sliort  apron  tied 
round  liim.  There  was  sometliing  picturesque 
about  the  cap,  which  might  not  liave  been  in- 
congruous with  love-making.  It  is  easy  to  sup- 
pose that  Juan  wore  a  Turkish  cap  when  he  sat 
witli  Ilaidee  in  Lambro's  island.  But  we  may 
be  quite  sure  that  he  did  not  wear  an  apron. 
Now  Dalrymple  had  thought  of  all  this,  and 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  work  to-day  without 
his  apron ;  but  when  arranging  his  easel  and 
his  brushes  he  had  put  it  on  from  force  of  habit, 
and  was  now  disgusted  with  himself  as  he  re- 
membered it.  He  put  down  his  brush,  divested 
his  thumb  of  his  pallet,  then  took  off  his  cap, 
and  after  that  untied  the  apron. 

"Conway,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  said 
Mrs.  Broughton. 

' '  I  am  going  to  ask  Clara  Van  Siever  to  be 
my  wife,"  said  Dalrymple.  At  that  moment 
the  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs.  Van  Siever  en- 
tered the  room. 

Clara  had  not  risen  from  her  kneeling  pos- 
ture when  Dalrymple  began  to  put  off  his  trap- 
pings.     She  had  not  seen  what  he  was  doing  [ 
as  plainly  as  Mrs.  Broughton  had  done,  having  | 
her  attention  naturally  drawn  toward  her  Sise- 
ra ;  and,  besides  this,  she  understood  tliat  she 
was  to  remain  as  she  was  placed  till  orders  to 
move  were  given  to  her.     Dalrymple  would  oc-  1 
casLonally  step  aside  from  liis  easel  to  look  at 
her  in  some  altered  light,  and  on  sucli  occasions 
she  would  simply  hold  her  hammer  somewhat 
more    tiglitly   than   before.     When,  therefore,  ! 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  entered  the  room  Clara  was 
still  slaying  Sisera,  in  spite  of  the  artist's  speech. 
The  speech,  indeed,  and  her  mother,  both  seem- 
ed to  come  to  her  at  the  same  time.     The  old 
woman  stood  for  a  moment  holding  the  open 
door   in   her   hand.      "You    fool!"    she   said,  ! 
*'  what  are  you  doing  there,  dressed  up  in  that  i 
way  like  a  guy  ?"     Then  Clara  got  up  from  her  f 
feet,  and  stood  before  her  mother  in  Jael's  dress 
and   Jael's   turban.     Dalrymple   thought  that 
the  dress  and  turban  did  not  become  her  badly,  i 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  apparently  tliouglit  otlierwise. 
"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me,  misg, 
why  you  are  dressed  up  after  that  Mad  Bess  of 
Bedlam  fashion  ?" 

The  reader  will  no  doubt  bear  in  mind  that  | 
Clara  had  other  words  of  which  to  think  besides  | 
those  wiiich  were  addressed  to  her  by  her  mo- 
ther.  Dalrymple  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  ' 
in  the  plainest  possible  language,  and  slie  ' 
thouglit  that  the  very  plainness  of  the  language  i 
became  him  well.  The  A'ery  taking  off  of  hisi! 
apron,  almost  as  he  said  the  words,  though  to 
himself  the  action  had  been  so  distressing  as  al-  ; 
most  to  overcome  his  purpose,  had  in  it  some-  i 
thing  to  her  of  direct  simple  determination  which  ' 
pleased  her.  When  he  had  spoken  of  liaving  ; 
had  a  nail  driven  by  her  right  through  his  heart ! 
she  had  not  been  in  the  least  gratified  ;  but  the  ! 


taking  off  of  the  apron,  and  the  putting  down  of 
the  pallet,  and  the  downright  way  in  which  he 
had  called  her  Clara ^an  Siever — attempting  to 
be  neitlier  sentimental  with  Clara  nor  polite 
with  Miss  Van  Siever — did  please  her.  Slie  had 
often  said  to  herself  that  she  would  never  give  a 
plain  answer  to  a  man  who  did  not  ask  lier  a 
plain  question  ;  to  a  man  who,  in  asking  this 
question,  did  not  say  plainly  to  her,  "Clara 
Van  Siever,  will  you  become  Mrs.  Jones?" — or 
Mrs.  Smith,  or  Mrs.  Tomkins,  as  the  case  might 
be.  Now  Conway  Dalrymple  had  asked  her  to 
become  Mrs.  Dalrymple  very  much  after  this 
fashion.  In  spite  of  the  apparition  of  her  mo- 
ther all  this  had  passed  through  her  mind.  Not 
the  less,  however,  was  she  obliged  to  answer  her 
mother  before  she  could  give  any  reply  to  the 
other  questioner.  In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  untucked  her  feet. 

"Mamma,"  said  Clara,  "who  ever  expected 
to  sec  you  here  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  nobody  did,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Sie- 
ver ;   "  but  here  I  am,  nevertheless." 

"  Madam,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  "  you 
might  at  any  rate  have  gone  through  the  cere- 
mony of  having  yourself  announced  by  the  serv- 
ant." 

"Madam,"  said  the  old  woman,  attempting 
to  mimic  the  tone  of  the  other,  "  I  thought  that 
on  such  a  very  particular  occasion  as  this  I  might 
be  allowed  to  announce  myself.  You  tomfool, 
you,  why  don't  you  take  that  turban  off?"  Then 
Clara,  with  slow  and  graceful  motion,  unwound 
the  turban.  If  Dalrymple  really  meant  what  he 
had  said,  and  would  stick  to  it,  she  need  not 
mind  being  called  a  tomfool  by  her  mother. 

"  Conway,  I  am  afraid  that  our  last  sitting  is 
disturbed,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  with  her  little 
laugh. 

"  Conway's  last  sitting  certainly  is  disturbed," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  and  then  she  mimicked 
the  laugh.  "And  you'll  all  be  disturbed — I  can 
tell  you  that.  What  an  ass  you  must  be  to  go 
on  with  this  kind  of  thing  after  what  I  said  to 
you  yesterday !  Do  you  know  that  he  got  beast- 
ly drunk  in  the  City  last  night,  and  that  he  is 
drunk  now,  while  you  are  going  on  with  your 
tomfooleries?"  Upon  iiearing  this  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  fainted  into  Dairy mple's  arms. 
.  Hitherto  the  artist  had  not  said  a  word,  and 
had  hardly  known  what  part  it  would  best  be- 
come him  now  to  play.  If  he  intended  to  marry 
Clara — and  he  certainly  did  intend  to  marry  her 
if  she  would  have  him — it  might  be  as  well  not 
to  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Van  Siever.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  nothing  in  Mrs.  Van  Siever's  intru- 
sion, disagreeable  as  it  was,  which  need  make 
him  take  up  his  sword  to  do  battle  with  her. 
But  now,  as  he  held  INIrs.  Broughton  in  his 
arms,  and  as  the  horrid  words  which  the  old  wo- 
man had  spoken  rung  in  his  ears,  he  could  not 
refrain  himself  from  uttering  reproach.  "  You 
ought  not  to  have  told  her  in  this  way,  before 
other  people,  even  if  it  be  true,"  said  Conway. 

"Leave  mo  to  be  my  own  judge  of  what  I 
ought  to  do,  if  you  please,  Sir.     If  she  had  any 


274 


THE  LAST  CHHONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


feeliii};  at  all,  what  I  told  her  yesterday  would 
have  kejit  her  from  all  this.  But  some  pcojilc 
have  i!0  feelint;,  and  will^go  on  being  tomfools 
though  tiie  house  is  on  lire."  As  these  words 
were  spoken  Mrs.  Brouj^liton  fainted  more  per- 
sistently than  ever — so  that  Dalrymjjle  was  con- 
vinced that  whether  she  felt  or  not,  at  any  rate 
she  heard.  He  had  now  dragged  her  across 
the  room,  and  laid  her  upon  the  sofa,  and  Clara 
had  come  to  her  assistance.  "  I  dare  say  you 
think  mc  very  hard  because  I  speak  jilainly,  but 
tliere  are  things  much  harder  than  jilain  speak- 
ing. I  low  much  do  you  expect  to  be  paid,  Sir, 
for  this  ])icturc  of  my  girl  ?" 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  be  paid  for  it  at  all," 
said  Dalrymple. 

"And  who  is  it  to  belong  to?" 

"It  belongs  to  mc  at  jjrcsent." 

"  Then,  Sir,  it  mustn't  belong  to  you  any 
longer.  It  won't  do  {ov  you  to  have  a  jjictnre 
of  my  girl  to  hang  up  in  your  painting-room  for 
all  your  friends  to  come  and  make  their  jokes 
about,  nor  yet  to  make  a  show  of  it  in  any  of 
your  exhibitions.  My  daughter  has  been  a  fool, 
and  I  can't  help  it.  If  you'll  tell  me  what's  the 
cost  I'll  pay  you ;  then  I'll  have  the  picture 
home,  and  I'll  treat  it  as  it  deserves." 

Dalrymple  thought  for  a  moment  about  his 
picture  and  about  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  What  had 
he  better  do  ?  He  wanted  to  behave  well,  and 
he  felt  that  the  old  woman  had  something  of 
justice  on  her  side.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "I 
will  not  .sell  this  picture ;  but  it  shall  be  de- 
stroyed, if  you  wish  it." 

"I  certainly  do  wish  it,  but  I  won't  trust  to 
you.  If  it's  not  sent  to  my  house  at  once  you'll 
hear  from  me  through  my  lawyers." 

Then  Dalrymple  deliberately  opened  his  pen- 
knife and  slit  the  canvas  across,  through  the 
middle  of  the  picture  each  way.  Clara,  as  she 
saw  him  do  it,  felt  that  in  truth  she  loved  him. 
"  There,  Mrs.  Van  Siever,"  he  said,  "now  you 
can  take  the  bits  home  with  you  in  your  basket 
if  you  wish  it."  At  this  moment,  as  the  rent 
canvas  fell  and  fluttered  upon  the  stretcher, 
there  came  a  loud  voice  of  lamentation  from  the 
sofa,  a  groan  of  despair,  and  a  shriek  of  wrath. 
"  Very  fine  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever. 
"When  ladies  faint  they  always  ought  to  have 
their  eyes  about  tiiem.  I  see  that  Mrs.  Brough-* 
ton  understands  tiiat." 

"Take  her  away,  Conway — for  God's  sake 
take  her  away,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"  I  shall  take  myself  away  very  shortly,"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Siever,  "so  you  needn't  trouble  Mr., 
Conway  about  that.  Not  but  what  I  thouglit 
the  gentleman's  name  was  Mr.  something  else." 

"My  name  is  Conway  Dalrymple,"  said  the 
artist. 

"Then  I  suppose  you  must  be  her  brother, 
or  her  cousin,  or  something  of  that  sort?"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Siever. 

"Take  her  away,"  screamed  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton. 

"Wait  a  moment,  madam.  As  you've 
chopped  up  your  handiwork  there,  Mr.  Con- 


way Dalrymple,  and  as  I  supi)osc  my  daughter 
has  been  more  to  blame  than  any  body  else — "   i 

"She  has  not  been  to  blame  at  all,"  said 
Dalrymjjle. 

"That's  my  affair,  and  not  yours,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Siever,  very  sluarjily.  "  But  as  you've  been 
at  all  this  trouble,  and  have  now  cliopped  it  up, 
I  don't  mind  paying  you  for  your  time  and 
paints ;  only  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  how  much 
it  will  come  to  ?" 

"There  will  be  nothing  to  pay,  Mrs.  Van 
Siever." 

" How  long  has  he  been  at  it,  Clara?" 

"Mamma,  indeed  you  had  better  not  say 
any  thing  about  paying  him." 

"I  shall  say  whatever  I  please,  miss.  Will 
ten  pounds  do  it,  Sir  ?" 

"  If  you  choose  to  buy  the  picture,  the  price 
will  be  seven  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  Dalrym- 
ple, with  a  smile,  pointing  to  the  fragments. 

"  Seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds?"  said  the 
old  woman. 

"But  I  strongly  advise  you  not  to  make  the 
purchase,"  said  Dalrymple. 

"Seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds!  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  give  you  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  Sir." 

"  I  certainly  think  you  could  invest  your  mon- 
ey better,  l\Irs.  Van  Siever.  But  if  the  thing  is 
to  be  sold  at  all,  that  is  my  price.  I've  thought 
that  there  was  some  justice  in  your  demand  that 
it  should  be  destroyed — and  therefoi;e  I  have 
destroyed  it." 

Mrs.  Van  Siever  had  been  standing  on  the 
same  spot  ever  since  she  had  entered  the  room, 
and  now  she  turned  round  to  leave  the  room. 

"If  you  have  any  demand  to  make,  I  beg 
that  you  will  send  in  your  account  for  work 
done  to  INIr.  Musselboro.  He  is  my  man  of 
business.  Clara,  are  you  ready  to  come  home  ? 
Tlie  cab  is  waiting  at  the  door — at  sixpence  the 
quarter  of  an  hour,  if  you  will  be  pleased  to  re- 
member." 

"Mrs.  Broughton,"  said  Clara,  thoughtful  of 
iier  raiment,  and  remembering  that  it  miglit 
not  be  well  that  she  should  return  home,  even 
in  a  cab,  dressed  as  Jael,  "if  you  will  allow  me, 
I  will  go  into  your  room  for  a  minute  or  two." 

"  Certainly,  Clara, "said Mrs.  Broughton,  pre- 
paring to  accompany  her. 

"But  before  you  go,  Mrs.  Broughton,"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Siever,  "it  may  be  as  well  that  I 
should  tell  you  that  my  daughter  is  going  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  Mr.  Musselboro.  It  may  sim- 
plify matters  that  you  should  know  this."  And 
Mrs.  Van  Siever,  as  she  spoke,  looked  hard  at 
Conway  Dalrymple. 

"Mamma!"  exclaimed  Clara. 

"My  dear," said  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  "  you  had 
better  change  your  dress  and  come  away  with 
me." 

"Not  till  I  have  protested  against  what  you 
have  said,  mamma." 

"  You  had  better  leave  your  protesting  alone, 
I  can  tell  you." 

"Mrs.  Broughton,"  continued  Clara,  "I  must 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


275 


beg  yoti  to  understand  that  mamma  has  not  the 
slightest  right  in  the  workl  to  tell  you  what  she 
just  now  said  about  me.  Nothing  on  earth 
would  induce  me  to  become  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Broughtoii's  partner." 

There  was  something  whicli  made  Clara  un- 
willing even  to  name  the  man  wliom  lier  mo- 
ther had  publicly  proposed  as  her  future  hus- 
band. 

"  He  isn't  Mr.  Broughton's  partner,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Siever.  "  Mr.  Broughton  has  not  got  a 
partner.  Mr.  ]\Iusselboro  is  the  head  of  the  firm. 
And  as  to  your  marrying  him,  of  course  I  can't 
make  you."  /j 

"No,  mamma;  you  can  not."  j 

"  Mrs.  Brougliton  understands  that,  no  doubt  | 
— and  so,  probably,  does  Mr.  Dalrymple.  '  I 
only  tell  tliera  what  are  my  ideas.  If  you 
choose  to  marry  the  sweep  at  the  crossing,  I  can't 
help  it.  Only  I  don't  see  what  good  you  would 
do  the  sweep,  when  he  would  have  to  sweep  for 
himself  and  you  too.  At  any  rate,  I  suppose 
you  mean  to  go  home  with  me  now?"  Then 
Mrs.  Broughton  and  Clara  left  the  room,  and 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  was  left  with  Conway  Dalrym- 
ple. "Mr.  Dalrymple,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever, 
"  do  not  deceive  yourself.  What  I  told  you 
just  now  will  certainly  come  to  pass." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  tliat  must  depend  on  the 
young  lady,"  said  Dalrymple. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  certainly  will  not  depend 
on  the  young  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  "and 
that  is  whether  the  man  who  marries  her  will 
have  more  with  her  than  the  clothes  she  stands 
up  in.  You  will  understand  that  argument,  I 
suppose?" 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  do, "  said  Dalrymple. 

"Then  you'd  better  try  to  understand  it. 
Good-morning,  Sir.  I'm  sorry  you've  had  to 
slit  your  picture."  Then  she  courtesied  low, 
and  walked  out  on  to  the  landing-place.  ' '  Clara," 
she  cried,  "I'm  waiting  for  you — sixpence  a 
quarter  of  an  hour — remember  that."  In  a 
minute  or  two  Clara  came  out  to  her,  and  then 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  and  Miss  Van  Siever  took  their 
departure. 

"  Oil,  Conway,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  what  am  I 
to  do  ?"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  Dalrym- 
ple stood  perplexed  fur  a  few  minutes,  and  could 
not  tell  her  what  she  was  to  do.  She  was  in  such 
a  position  that  it  was  very  liard  to  tell  her  what 
to  do.  "  Do  you  believe,  Conway,  that  he  is  real- 
ly ruined?" 

"  What  am  I  to  say  ?     How  am  I  to  know  ?" 

"I  see  that  you  believe  it,"  said  the  wretched 
woman. 

"  I  can  not  but  believe  that  there  is  something 
of  truth  in  what  this  woman  says.  Why  else 
should  she  come  here  witli  sucli  a  story  ?"  Tlien 
there  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton was  burying  her  face  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  "continued  he.  "I'll 
go  into  the  City  and  make  inquiry.  It  can 
hardly  be  but  what  I  shall  learn  the  truth  there." 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  at  the  end  of 
whicli  Mrs.  Broughton  got  up  from  the  sofa. 


"Tell  me,"  said  she,  "what  do  you  mean 
to  do  about  tliat  girl  ?" 

"  You  heard  me  ask  her  to  be  my  wife?" 

"I  did.     I  did!" 

"Is  it  not  what  you  intended?" 

"Do  not  ask  me.  My  mind  is  bewildered. 
My  brain  is  on  fire !     Oh,  Conway  !" 

"Shall  I  go  into  the  City  as  I  proposed?" 
said  Dalrymple,  who  felt  that  he  miglit,  at  any 
rate,  improve  the  position  of  circumstances  by 
leaving  the  iiouse. 

"Yes — yes;  go  into  the  City  !  Go  any  where. 
Go.  But  stay!  Oh,  Conway  !"  There  was  a 
sudden  change  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 
"  Hark — there  he  is,  as  sure  as  life."  Then 
Conway  listened,  and  heard  a  footstep  on  the 
stairs,  as  to  which  he  had  then  but  little  doubt 
that  it  was  the  footstep  of  Dobbs  Brougliton. 
"  Oh  Heavens  !  he  is  tipsy !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Broughton;  "and  Avhat  shall  we  do?"  Then 
Dalrymple  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it,  and 
left  the  room,  so  that  he  might  meet  the  hus- 
band on  the  stairs.  In  the  one  moment  that 
he  had  for  reflection  lie  thought  it  was  better 
that  there  should  be  no  concealment. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

"it's  dogged  as  does  it." 

In  accordance  with  the  resohition  to  which 
the  clerical  commission  had  come  on  the  first 
day  of  their  sitting,  Dr.  Tempest  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  Mr.  Crawley  : 

"  Rectoky,  SiLVEKBEinGE,  April  9,  1S6-. 

"Deak  Sir, — I  have  been  given  to  under- 
stand that  you  have  been  informed  that  the 
Bishop  of  Barchester  has  appointed  a  commis- 
sion of  clergymen  of  the  diocese  to  make  in- 
quiry respecting  certain  accusations  which,  to 
the  great  regret  of  us  all,  have  been  made  against 
you,  in  respect  to  a  check  for  twenty  pounds 
which  was  passed  by  you  to  a  tradesman  in  this 
town.  The  clergymen  appointed  to  form  this 
commission  are  Mr.  Oriel,  the  rector  of  Grcsh- 
amsbury,  Mr.  Robarts,  the  vicar  of  Framley,  Mr. 
Quiverful,  the  warden  of  Hiram's  Hospital  at 
Barchester,  Mr.  Thumble,  a  clergyman  estab- 
lished in  that  city,  and  myself.  We  held  our 
first  meeting  on  last  Monday,  and  I  now  write 
to  you  in  compliance  with  a  resolution  to  which 
we  then  came.  Before  taking  any  other  steps 
we  thought  it  best  to  ask  you  to  attend  us  here 
on  next  Monday,  at  two  o'clock,  and  I  beg  that 
you  will  accept  this  letter  as  an  invitation  to  that 
effect. 

"We  are,  of  course,  aware  th.^t  you  are  about 
to  stand  your  trial  at  the  next  assizes  for  the  of- 
fense in  question.  I  beg  you  to  understand  that 
I  do  not  express  any  opinion  as  to  your  guilt. 
But  I  think  it  right  to  point  out  to  you  that  in 
the  event  of  a  jury  finding  an  adverse  verdict, 
the  bishop  might  be  placed  in  great  difliculty  un- 
less he  were  fortified  with  the  opinion  of  a  com- 
mission formed  from  vour  follow  clerical  labor- 


276 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


crs  in  the  diocese.  -  Should  such  adverse  ver- 
dict unrurttinatcly  be  {j;iven,  the  bishop  would 
hardly  be  justified  in  nllowinj,'  a  clergyman  phiced 
as  you  tiicn  would  be  jilaced  to  return  to  his 
cure  after  the  expiration  of  such  ])unishment  as 
the  judge  might  award,  without  a  further  deci- 
sion from  an  ecclesiasiical  court.  Tliis  decision 
he  could  only  obtain  by  jirocecding  against  yon 
under  the  Act  in  reference  to  clerical  offenses, 
which  empowers  him  as  bisliop  of  the  iliocese  to 
bring  you  before  tl-.e  Court  of  Arches — unless 
you  would  tliink  well  to  sulmiit  yom-self  entirely 
to  his  judgment.  You  will,  I  think,  understand 
what  I  m;;an.  Tlie  judge  at  assizes  might  iind 
it  Ills  duty  to  imprison  a  clergyman  for  a  montli 
— regarding  that  clergyman  simjjly  as  he  would 
regard  any  other  ))erson  found  guilty  by  a  jury, 
and  thus  made  subject  to  his  judgment — and 
might  do  this  for  an  olTense  which  the  ecclesi- 
astical judge  would  find  himself  obliged  to  visit 
with  tlie  severer  sentence  of  prolonged  suspen- 
sion, or  even  with  dejjrivation. 

"  We  are,  however,  clearly  of  opinion  that 
should  tlie  jury  find  tliemselves  able  to  actjuit 
yon,  no  further  action  whatsoever  should  be 
taken.  In  such  case  we  think  that  tlie  bisliop 
may  regard  your  innocence  to  be  fully  estab- 
lished, and  in  such  case  wc  shall  recommend 
his  lordship  to  look  upon  the  matter  as  altogeth- 
er at  an  end.  I  can  assure  you  that  in  such  case 
I  shall  so  regard  it  myself. 

"You  will  perceive  that,  as  a  consequence  of 
this  resolution,  to  which  wc  have  already  come, 
we  are  not  minded  to  make  any  inquiries  our- 
selves into  tlie  circumstances  of  j'our  alleged 
guilt  till  the  verdict  of  the  jury  shall  be  given. 
If  you  arc  acquitted,  our  course  will  be  clear. 
But  should  you  be  convicted,  we  must  in  that 
case  advise  the  bishop  to  take  the  proceedings 
to  which  I  have  alluded,  or  to  abstain  from  tak- 
ing them.  We  wish  to  ask  you  whether,  now 
that  our  opinion  has  been  conveyed  to  you,  yon 
will  lie  willing  to  submit  to  the  bishop's  decision 
in  the  event  of  an  adverse  verdict  being  given 
by  the  jury;  and  we  think  that  it  will  be  better 
for  us  all  that  you  should  meet  us  here  at  the 
hour  I  have  named  on  Monday  next,  the  15th 
instant.  It  is  not  our  intention  to  make  any 
report  to  the  bishop  until  the  trial  shall  be  over. 
"I  have  tlie  honor  to  be, 
"  My  dear  Sir, 
"Your  very  obedient  servant, 

"  MoRTiMKR  Tempest, 

"The  Kev.  Josiah  Ckawley,  Houglestock." 

In  the  same  envelope  Dr.  Tempest  sent  a  short 
private  note,  in  which  he  said  that  he  should  be 
very  happy  to  see  Mr.  Crawley  at  half  past  one 
on  tlie  Monday  named,  that  luncheon  would  be 
ready  at  that  hour,  and  that,  as  Mr.  Crawley's 
attendance  was  required  on  public  grounds,  he 
would  take  care  that  a  carriage  was  provided 
for  the  day. 

Mr.  Crawley  received  this  letter  in  his  wife's 
presence,  and  read  it  in  silence.  Mrs.  Crawley 
saw  that  he  fiaid  close  attention  to  it,  and  was 
sure — she  felt  tiiat  she  was  sure — that  it  referred 


in  some  way  to  the  terrible  subject  of  the  chccfc 
for  twenty  pounds.  Indeed,  every  thing  that 
came  into  the  house,  almost  every  word  spoken 
there,  and  every  thought  that  came  into  the 
breasts  of  any  of  the  family,  had  more  or  1 
reference  to  the  coming  trial.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  There  was  ruin  coming  on  them  all! 
— ruin  and  complete  disgrace  coming  on  father, 
mother,  and  children !  To  have  been  accused 
itself  was  very  bad  ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  be  the 
opinion  of  every  one  that  the  verdict  must  bei 
against  the  man.  Mrs.  Crawley  herself,  who 
was  perfectly  sure  of  her  husband's  innocence 
before  God,  believed  that  the  jury  would  find 
him  guilty;  and  believed  also  that  he  had  be- 
come i)ossessed  of  the  money  in  some  manner 
that  would  have  been  dishonest  had  he  not  been 
so  different  from  other  people  as  to  be  entitled 
to  be  considered  innocent  where  another  man 
would  have  been  plainly  guilty.  She  was  full 
of  the  check  for  twenty  pounds,  and  of  its  re- 
sults. When,  therefore,  he  had  read  the  letter 
through  a  second  time,  and  even  then  had  spoken 
no  word  about  it,  of  course  she  could  not  refrain 
from  questioning  him.  "My  love,"  she  said, 
"what  is  the  letter?" 

"It  is  on  business,"  he  answei'cd. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  before  she  spoke 
again.      "  May  I  not  know  the  business  ?" 

"No,"  said  he;   "not  at  present." 

"  Is  it  from  the  bishop?" 

"Have  I  not  answered  you?  Have  I  not 
given  you  to  understand  that,  for  a  while  at 
least,  I  would  jn-efer  to  keep  the  contents  of  this 
epistle  to  myself?"  Then  he  looked  at  her  very 
sternly,  and  afterward  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 
fire-place  and  gazed  at  the  fire  as  though  he 
were  striving  to  read  there  something  of  his  fu- 
ture fate.  She  did  not  much  regard  the  sever- 
ity of  his  speech.  That,  too,  like  the  taking  of 
the  check  itself,  was  to  be  forgiven  him  becaitse 
he  was  diftcrent  from  other  men.  His  black 
mood  had  come  upon  him,  and  every  thing  was 
to  be  forgiven  him  now.  He  was  as  a  child 
when  cutting  his  teeth.  Let  tlie  poor  wayward 
sufferer  be  ever  so  petulant,  the  mother  simply 
pities  and  loves  him,  and  is  never  angry.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Josiah,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
thought  it  would  comfort  you  to  speak  to  me 
about  it." 

"It  will  not  comfort  rae,"  he  said.  "  Nothing 
comforts  me.  Nothing  can  comfort  me.  Jane, 
give  me  my  hat  and  my  stick."  His  daughter 
brought  to  liim  his  hat  and  stick,  and  without 
another  word  he  went  out  and  left  them. 

As  a  matter  of  course  he  turned  his  steps  to- 
ward Hoggle  End.  When  he  desired  to  be  long 
absent  from  the  house  he  always  went  among 
the  brickmakers.  His  M'ife,  as  she  stood  at  the 
window  and  watched  the  direction  in  which  he 
went,  knew  that  he  might  be  away  for  hours. 
The  only  friends  out  of  his  own  family  with 
whom  he  ever  spoke  freely  were  some  of  these 
rough  parishioners.  But  he  was  not  thinking 
of  the  brickmakers  when  he  started.  He  was 
simply  desirous  of  again  reading  Dr.  Tempest's 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


277 


letter,  and  of  considering  it,  in  some  spot  where 
no  eye  could  see  him.  He  walked  away  with 
long  steps,  regarding  nothing — neither  the  ruts 
in  the  dirty  lane,  nor  the  young  primroses  which 
•were  fast  showing  themselves  on  the  banks,  nor 
the  gathering  clouds  which  might  have  told  liim 
of  the  coming  rain.  He  went  on  for  a  couple 
of  miles,  till  he  had  nearly  reached  the  outskirts 
of  the  colony  of  Hoggle  End,  and  then  he  sat 
himself  down  upon  a  gate.  He  had  not  been 
there  a  minute  before  a  few  slow  large  drojjs  be- 
gan to  fall,  but  he  was  altogether  too  much 
wrapped  up  in  his  thoughts  to  regard  the  rain. 
What  answer  should  he  make  to  this  letter  from 
the  man  at  Silverbridge? 

The  position  of  his  own  mind  in  reference  to 
his  own  guilt  or  his  own- innocence  was  very  sin- 
gular.    It  was  simply  the  truth  that  he  did  not 
know  how  the  check  had  come  to  him.     He  did 
know  that  he  had  blundered  about  it  most  egre^ 
giously,  especially  when  he  had  averred  that  this 
check  for  twenty  pounds  had  been  identical  with 
a  check  for  another  sum  which  had  been  given 
to  him  by  Mr.  Soames.     He  had  blundered  since, 
in  saying  that  the  dean  had  given  it  to  him. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  this,  for  the  dean 
j  had  denied  that  ho  had  done  so.     And  he  had 
I  come  to  think  it  very  possible  that  he  had  in- 
1  deed  picked  the  check  up,  and  liad  afterward 
\  used  it,  having  deposited  it  by  some  strange  ac- 
;  cident — not  knowing  tlien  what  he  was  doing, 
!  or  wliat  was  the  nature  of  the  bit  of  paper  in  his 
j  hand — with  the  notes  which  he  had  accepted 
from  the  dean  with  so  much  reluctance,  with 
I  such  an  agony  of  spirit.     In  all  these  thoughts 
I  of  his  own  about  his  own  doings  and  his  own 
I  position,  he  almost  admitted  to  himself  his  own 
1  insanity,  his  inability  to  manage  his  own  affairs 
I  with  that  degree  of  rational  sequence  which  is 
!  taken  for  granted  as  belonging  to  a  man  when 
I  he  is  made  subject  to  criminal  laws.     As  he 
,  puzzled  his  brain  in  his  efforts  to  create  a  mem- 

I  ory  as  to  the  check,  and  succeeded  in  bringing 
'i  to  his  mind  a  recollection  that  he  had  once 

II  known  something  about  tlie  check — that  the 
ji  check  had  at  one  time  been  the  subject  of  a 
'}  thought  and  of  a  resolution — he  admitted  to  him- 
1  self  that  in  accordance  with  all  law  and  all  rea- 
'  son  he  must  be  regarded  as  a  thief.      He  had 

i  taken  and  used  and  spent  that  which  he  ought 
to  have  known  was  not  his  own — which  he  would 
have  known  not  to  be  his  own  but  for  some  ter- 
rible incapacity  with  which  God  had  afflicted 
him.  What  then  must  be  the  result?  His 
mind  was  clear  enough  about  this.     If  the  jury 

1  could  see  every  thing  and  know  every  thing— as 
he  would  wish  that  they  should  do  ;  and  if  this 
bishop's  commission,  and  the  bishop  himself, 
and  the  Court  of  Arches  with  its  judge,  could 
see  and  know  every  thing  ;  and  if  so  seeing  and 
so  knowing  they  could  act  with  clear  honesty 
and  perfect  wisdom — what  would  they  do?  They 
would  declare  of  him  that  he  was  not  a  thief, 
only  because  he  was  so  muddy-minded,  so  addle- 
pated  as  not  to  know  the  difference  between 
meum  and  tuum !     There  could  be   no  other 


end  to  it,  let  all  the  lawyers  and  all  the  clergymen 
in  England  put  their  wits  to  it.  Though  lie 
knew  himself  to  be  muddy-minded  and  addle- 
patcd,  he  could  see  that.  And  could  any  one 
say  of  such  a  man  that  he  was  fit  to  be  the  act- 
ing clergyman  of  a  parish — to  have  a  freehold 
possession  in  a  ])arisli  as  curer  of  men's  souls ! 
The  bishop  was  in  the  right  of  it,  let  him  be  ten 
times  as  mean  a  fellow  as  he  was. 

And  yet  as  he  sat  there  on  the  gate,  while  the 
rain  came  down  heavily  upon  him,  even  when 
admitting  the  justice  of  the  bishop,  and  the 
truth  of  tlie  verdict  which  the  jury  would  no 
doubt  give,  and  the  ju-opriety  of  the  action 
which  that  cold,  reasonable,  prosperous  man  at 
Silverbridge  would  take,  he  pitied  himself  with 
a  tenderness  of  commiseration  which  knew  no 
bounds.  As  for  those  belonging  to  him,  his 
wife  and  children,  his  pity  for  them  was  of  a 
different  kind.  He  would  have  suffered  any  in- 
crease of  suffering,  could  he  by  such  agony  have 
released  tliem.  Dearly  as  he  loved  tlieni,  he 
would  have  severed  himself  from  them  had  it 
been  possible.  Terrible  thoughts  as  to  their 
fate  had  come  into  his  mind  in  the  worst  mp- 
ments  of  his  moodiness — thoughts  whicli  he  had 
had  suflScicnt  strength  and  manliness  to  put 
away  from  him  with  a  strong  hand,  lest  tliey 
should  drive  him  to  crime  indeed;  and  these 
had  come  from  the  great  pity  wliicli  he  had  felt 
for  them.  But  the  commiseration  which  he  had 
felt  for  himself  had  been  different  from  tliis, 
and  had  mostly  visited  him  at  times  when  that 
other  pity  was  for  the  moment  in  abeyance. 
What  though  he  had  taken  the  ciieck,  and 
spent  tlie  money  though  it  was  not  his  ?  He 
might  be  guilty  before  the  law,  but  he  was  not 
guilty  before  God.  There  had  never  been  a 
thouglit  of  theft  in  his  mind,  or  a  desire  to  steal 
in  bis  heart.  He  knew  that  well  enough.  No 
jury  could  make  him  guilty  of  tliefc  before  God. 
And  what  though  this  mixture  of  guilt  and  in- 
nocence had  come  from  madness — from  mad- 
ness which  these  courts  must  recognize  if  they 
chose  to  find  him  innocent  of  tlie  crime  ?  In 
spite  of  his  aberrations  of  intellect,  if  there  were 
any  such,  his  ministrations  in  his  parish  were 
good.  Had  lie  not  preached  fervently  and  well 
— preaching  the  true  gospel  ?  Had  he  not  been 
very  diligent  among  his  people,  striving  with  all 
his  might  to  lessen  the  ignorance  of  the  igno- 
rant, and  to  gild  with  godliness  the  learning  of 
the  instructed  ?  Had  he  not  been  patient,  en- 
during, instant,  and  in  all  things  amenable  to 
the  laws  and  regulations  laid  down  by  the 
Church  for  his  guidance  in  his  duties  as  a  par- 
ish clergyman  ?  Who  could  point  out  in  what 
he  had  been  astray,  or  where  he  had  gone  amiss? 
But  for  the  work  which  he  had  done  with  so 
much  zeal  the  Church  which  he  served  had  ])aid 
him  so  miserable  a  pittance  that,  though  life 
and  soul  had  been  kept  together,  the  reason,  or 
a  fragment  of  the  reason,  had  at  moments  es- 
caped from  his  keeping  in  the  scramble.  Hence 
it  was  that  this  terrible  calamity  had  fallen 
upon  him  !     Who  had  been  tried   as  he  had 


278 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


boen  tried,  and  liad  pone  tliioii,i;h  such  fire  with 
less  loss  of  intellectual  jjower  tluui  he  had  done? 
He  was  still  a  scholar,  though  no  brother  scholar 
ever  came  near  liini,  and  would  make  Greek 
iambics  as  be  walked  alonj;;  the  lanes.  His 
memory  was  stored  with  poetry,  though  no  book 
ever  came  to  bis  bands  except  those  shorn  and 
tattered  volumes  which  lay  ujjon  his  table.  Old 
problems  in  trigonometry  were  tiic  jileasing  re- 
laxations uf  bis  mind,  and  comijlications  of  fig- 
ures were  a  delight  to  him.  There  was  not  one 
of  those  ])rosperous  clergymen  around  him,  and 
who  scorned  him,  whom  be  could  not  have  in- 
structed in  Hebrew.  It  was  always  a  gratifica- 
tion to  him  to  remember  that  his  old  friend  the 
dean  was  weak  in  his  Hebrew.  He,  with  these 
acquirements,  with  these  fitnesses,  had  been 
thrust  down  to  the  ground — to  the  very  granite 
— and  because  in  that  harsh,  heartless  thrusting 
his  intellect  had  for  moments  wavered  as  to  com- 
mon things,  cleaving  still  to  all  its  grander,  no- 
bler possessions,  be  was  now  to  be  rent  in  ])icces 
and  scattered  to  the  winds,  as  being  altogether 
vile,  worthless,  and  worse  than  worthless.  It 
wjs  thus  that  be  thought  of  himself,  pitying 
himself,  as  he  sat  upon  the  gate,  while  the  rain 
fell  ruthlessly  on  his  shoulders. 

He  ])itied  himself  with  a  commiseration  that 
was  sickly  in  spite  of  its  truth.  It  was  the  fault 
of  the  man  that  he  was  imbued  too  strongly 
with  self-consciousness.  He  could  do  a  great 
thing  or  two.  He  could  keep  up  his  courage 
in  positions  which  would  wash  all  courage  out 
of  most  men.  He  could  tell  the  truth  though 
truth  should  ruin  him.  He  could  sacrifice  all 
that  he  had  to  duty.  He  could  do  justice 
though  the  heaven  should  fiill.  But  he  could 
not  forget  to  pay  a  tribute  to  himself  for  the 
greatness  of  his  own  actions ;  nor,  when  accept- 
ing with  an  effort  of  meekness  the  small  pay- 
ment made  by  the  world  to  him  in  return  for 
his  great  works,  could  he  forget  the  great  pay- 
ments made  to  others  for  small  work.  It  was 
not  sufficient  for  him  to  remember  that  he  knew 
Hei>re\\',  but  he  must  remember  also  that  the 
de.in  (lid  not. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  sat  tliere  under  the  rain, 
lie  made  up  his  mind  with  a  clearness  that  cer- 
tainly had  in  it  nothing  of  that  muddiness  of 
mind  of  which  he  had  often  accused  himself. 
Indeed,  the  intellect  of  this  man  was  essentially 
clear.  It  was  simply  his  memory  that  would 
play  him  tricks — his  memory  as  to  things  which 
at  the  moment  were  not  important  to  him. 
The  fact  that  the  dean  had  given  him  money 
was  very  important,  and  he  remembered  it  well. 
But  the  amount  of  the  money,  and  its  form,  at 
a  moment  in  which  he  bad  flattered  himself  that 
he  might  have  strength  to  leave  it  unused,  had 
not  been  important  to  him.  Now  he  resolved 
that  he  would  go  to  Dr.  Tempest,  and  that  he 
would  tell  Dr.  Tempest  that  there  was  no  oc- 
casion for  any  further  inquiry.  He  would  sub- 
mit to  the  bishop,  let  the  bishop's  decision  be 
what  it  might.  Things  were  different  since  the 
day  on  wliicli  he  had  refused  Mr.  Thumbic  ad- 


mission to  his  pulpit.  At  that  time  people  be- 
lieved him  to  be  innocent,  and  be  so  believed 
of  himself.  Now  people  believed  him  to  be 
guilty,  and  it  could  not  be  right  that  a  man  held 
in  such  slight  esteem  should  exercise  the  func- 
tions of  a  parish  priest,  let  his  own  opinion  of 
himself  be  what  it  might.  He  would  submit 
himself,  and  go  any  where — to  the  galleys  or 
the  work-house,  if  they  wished  it.  As  for  his 
wife  and  children,  they  would,  he  said  to  him- 
self, be  better  without  him  than  with  him.  The 
world  would  never  be  so  liard  to  a  woman  or  to 
children  as  it  had  been  to  him. 

He  was  sitting  saturated  with  rain — saturated 
also  with  thinking — and  quite  unobservant  of 
any  thing  around  him,  when  he  was  accosted  by 
an  old  man  from  Hoggle  End,  with  whom  be 
was  well  acquainted.  "  Thee  be  wat,  Marster 
Crawley,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Wet !"  said  Crawley,  recalled  suddenly  back 
to  the  realities  of  life.  "Well — yes.  I  am 
wet.     That's  because  it's  raining." 

"Thee  be  teeming  o'  wat.  Hadn't  thee  bet- 
ter go  wliome  ?" 

"And  are  not  you  wet  also?"  said  Mr.  CraAv- 
ley,  looking  at  the  old  man,  wlio  had  been  at 
work  in  the  brick-field,  and  who  was  soaked  with 
mire,  and  from  whom  there  seemed  to  come  a 
steam  of  muddy  mist. 

"Is  it  me,  yer  reverence?  I'm  wat  in 
course.  The  loikes  of  us  is  always  wat — that 
is  barring  the  insides  of  us.  It  comes  to  us 
natural  to  have  the  rheumatics.  How  is  one  of 
us  to  help  bisself  against  having  on  'em  ?  But 
there  ain't  no  call  for  the  loikes  of  you  to  have 
the  rheumatics." 

"My  friend,"  said  Crawley,  who  was  now 
standing  on  the  road — and  as  he  spoke  he  put 
out  his  arm  and  took  the  brickmakcr  by  the 
hand — -"there  is  a  worse  complaint  than  rheu- 
matism— there  is,  indeed." 

"There's  what  tiiey  calls  the  coUerer,"  said 
Giles  Hoggett,  looking  up  into  Mr.  Crawley's 
face.      "That  ain't  a  got  a  hold  of  yer?" 

"Ay,  and  worse  than  the  cholera.  A  man 
is  killed  all  over  when  he  is  struck  in  his  pride 
— and  yet  he  lives." 

"  Maybe  that's  bad  enough  too,"  said  Giles, 
with  his  hand  still  held  by  the  other. 

"It  is  bad  enough,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  strik- 
ing bis  breast  with  his  left  hand.  "It  is  bad 
enough." 

"Tell  'ee  what.  Master  Crawley' — and  yer  rev- 
erence mustn't  think  as  I  means  to  be  preaching — 
there  ain't  nowt  a  man  can't  bear  if  he'll  only 
be  dogged.  You  go  whonie.  Master  Crawley, 
and  think  o'  that,  and  maybe  it'll  do  ye  a  good 
yet.  It's  dogged  as  does  it.  It  ain't  thinking 
about  it."  Then  Giles  Hoggett  withdrew  his 
band  from  the  clergyman's,  and  walked  away 
toward  his  home  at  Hoggle  End.  Mr.  Crawley 
also  turned  homeward,  and  as  he  made  his  way 
through  the  lanes  he  repeated  to  himself  Giles 
Hoggett's  words.  "  It's  dogged  as  does  it.  It's 
not  thinking  about  it." 

He  did  not  sav  a  word  to  his  wife  on  that 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


279 


nfternoon  about  Dr.  Tempest;  and  she  was  so 
much  taken  up  with  liis  outward  condition  when 
ho  returned  as  almost  to  liave  forgotten  tlie  let- 
ter. He  allowed  himself,  but  barely  allowed 
liiniself,  to  be  made  dry,  and  then  for  the  re- 
liiaiuder  of  the  day  applied  himself  to  learn  the 
l.sson  which  Hoggctt  had  endeavored  to  teach 
him.  But  the  learning  of  it  was  not  easy,  and 
liardly  became  more  easy  when  he  had  worked 
the  problem  out  in  his  own  mind,  and  discov- 
ered that  tlie  brickmaker's  doggedness  simply 
meant  self-abnegation — that  a  man  should  force 
himself  to  endure  any  thing  that  might  be  sent 
upon  him,  not  only  without  outward  grumbling, 
but  also  without  grumbling  inwardly. 

Early  on  the  next  morning  he  told  his  wife 
that  he  was  going  into  Silverbridge.  "  It  is  that 
letter — the  letter  which  I  got  yesterday,  that  calls 
me,"  he  said.  And  then  he  handed  her  the  let- 
ter as  to  which  he  had  refused  to  speak  to  her 
on  the  preceding  day. 

' '  But  this  speaks  of  your  going  next  Monday, 
Josiah,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley.  / 

"I  find  it  to  be  more  suitable  that  I  should 
go  to-day,"  said  he.  "  Some  duty  I  do  owe  in 
this  matter  both  to  the  bishop  and  to  Dr.  Tem- 
pest, who,  after  a  fasliion,  is,  as  regards  my 
present  business,  the  bishop's  representative. 
But  I  do  not  perceive  tliat  I  owe  it  as  a  duty  to 
either  to  obey  implicitly  their  injunctions,  and  I 
will  not  submit  myself  to  the  cross-questionings 
of  the  man  Thumble.  As  I  am  purposed  at 
present  I  shall  express  my  willingness  to  give 
up  the  parish." 

"  Give  up  the  parish  altogether?" 

"Yes,  altogether."  As  he  spoke  he  clasped 
both  his  hands  together,  and  having  held  them 
for  a  moment  on  high,  allowed  them  to  fall  thus 
clasped  before  him.  "I  can  not  give  it  up  in 
part;  I  can  not  abandon  tlie  duties  and  reserve 
the  honorarium.     Nor  would  I  if  I  could." 

"I  did  not  mean  that,  Josiah.  But  pray 
think  of  it  bfefore  you  speak." 

"I  have  thought  of  it,  and  I  will  think  of  it. 
Farewell,  my  dear."     Then  he  came  u])  to  her 
and  kissed  her,  and  started  on  his  journey  on  . 
foot  to  Silverbridge. 

It  was  about  noon  when  he  reached  Silver- 
bridge,  and  he  was  told  that  Dr.  Tempest  was 
at  home.  The  servant  asked  liim  for  a  card. 
"I  have  no  card,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "but  I 
will  write  my  name  for  your  belioof  if  your  mas- 
ter's hospitality  will  allow  me  paper  and  pencil." 
The  name  was  written,  and  as  Crawley  waited 
in  the  drawing-room  he  spent  his  lime  in  hating 
I  Dr.  Tempest  because  the  door  had  been  opened 
by  a  man-servant  dressed  in  black.  Had  the 
man  been  in  livery  he  would  have  hated  Dr. 
Tempest  all  the  same.  And  he  M'ould  have 
hated  him  a  little  had  the  door  been  opened 
even  liy  a  smart  maid. 

,  ,.    "Your  letter  came  to  hand  yesterday  morn- 
ing. Dr.  Tempest,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  still  stand- 
ing, though  the  doctor  had  pointed  to  a  chair 
for  him  after  shaking  hands  with  him;    "and 
'  having  given  yesterday  to  the  consideration  of 


it,  with  what  judgment  I  have  been  able  to  ex- 
ercise, I  have  felt  it  to  be  incumbent  upon  me 
to  wait  uj)on  you  witiiout  further  delay,  as  by 
doing  so  I  may  perhaps  assist  your  views  and 
save  labor  to  those  gentlemen  who  are  joined 
with  you  in  this  commission  of  which  yon  have 
sj)okcn.  To  somn  of  them  it  may  possibly  i)e 
troublesome  that  they  should  be  brought  togeth- 
er iierc  on  next  Monday." 

Dr.  Tempest  had  been  looking  at  him  during 
this  sjjccch,  and  could  see  by  his  shoes  and  trow- 
scrs  that  he  had  walked  from  Hogglestock  to 
Silverbridge.  "Mr.  Crawley,  will  you  not  sit 
down  ?"  said  he,  and  then  he  rang  his  bell.  Mr. 
Crawley  sat  down,  not  on  the  chair  indicated, 
but  on  one  further  removed  and  at  the  other 
side  of  the  table.  When  the  servant  came — 
the  objectionable  butler  in  black  clothes  that 
were  so  much  smarter  than  Mr.  Crawley's  OM'n 
— his  master's  orders  were  communicated  with- 
out any  audible  word,  and  the  man  returned 
with  a  decanter  and  wine-glasses. 

"After  your  walk,  Mr.  Crawley,"  said  Dr. 
Tempest,  getting  up  from  his  seat  to  pour  out 
the  wine. 

"None,  I  thank  you." 

"Pray  let  me  persuade  you.  I  know  the 
length  of  the  miles  so  well." 

"I  will  take  none,  if  you  please.  Sir,"  said 
:Mr.  Crawley. 

"Now,  Mr.  Crawley,"said  Dr.  Tempest,  "do 
let  me  sjjeak  to  you  as  a  friend.  You  have 
walked  eight  miles,  and  are  going  to  talk  to  me 
on  a  subject  which  is  of  vital  importance  to  your- 
self. I  won't  discuss  it  unless  you'll  take  a  glass 
of  wine  and  a  biscuit." 

"Dr.  Tempest!" 

"  I'm  quite  in  earnest.  I  won't.  If  you  do 
as  I  ask  you  you  shall  talk  to  me  till  dinner- 
time, if  you  like  it.  There.  Now  you  may  be- 
gin." 

Mr.  Crawley  did  eat  the  biscuit  and  did  drinl: 
the  wine,  and  as  he  did  so  he  acknowledged  to 
himself  that  Dr.  Tempest  was  right.  He  felt 
that  tlie  wine  made  him  stronger  to  speak.  "  I 
hardly  know  why  you  have  preferred  to-day  to 
next  Monday,"  said  Dr.  Tempest ;  "  but  if  any 
thing  can  be  done  by  your  presence  here  to-day 
your  time  shall  not  be  thrown  away." 

"I  have  preferred  to-day  to  Monday,"  said 
Crawley,  "partly  because  I  would  sooner  talk 
to  one  man  than  to  five." 

•'There  is  something  in  that,  certainly,"  said 
Dr.  Tempest. 

"And  as  I  have  made  up  my  mind  as  to  the 
course  of  action  which  it  is  my  duty  to  take  in 
the  matter  to  which  your  letter  of  the  9th  of  this 
month  refers,  there  can  be  no  reason  why  I  should 
postpone  the  declaration  of  my  purpose.  Dr. 
Tempest,  I  have  determined  to  resign  my  pre- 
ferment at  Hogglestock,  and  shall  write  to-day 
to  the  Dean  of  Barchester,  who  is  the  patron, 
acquainting  him  of  my  purpose." 

"  You  mean  in  the  event — in  the  event — " 

"I  mean.  Sir,  to  do  this  without  reference  to 
any  event  that  is  future.     The  bishop,  Dr.  Tem- 


280 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


pest,  when  I  shall  have  been  jJroveJ  to  be  a 
thief,  shall  have  no  trouble  cither  in  causing  my 
suspension  or  my  deprivation.  The  name  and 
fame  of  a  parish  eler^ynian  shouUl  be  unstained. 
Mine  have  become  foul  with  infamy.  I  will  not 
wait  to  be  deprived  by  any  court,  by  any  bislioji, 
or  by  any  commission.  I  will  bow  my  head  to 
that  ]>ulilic  opinion  which  has  readied  me,  and 
I  will  dein-ive  myself." 

He  had  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  was  stand- 
ing as  he  pronounced  the  final  sentence  against 
himself.  Dr.  Tempest  still  remained  seated  in 
his  chair,  looking  at  him,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments there  was  silence.  "You  must  not  do 
tiiat,  Mr.  Crawley,"  Dr.  Tempest  said,  at  last. 

"But  I  shall  do  it." 

"Then  the  dean  must  not  take  your  resigna- 
tion. Speaking  to  you  frankly,  I  tell  you  that 
there  is  no  prevailing  opinion  as  to  the  verdict 
which  the  jury  may  give." 

"  My  decision  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
jury's  verdict.     My  decision — " 

"  Stop  a  moment,  Mr.  Crawley.  It  is  possi- 
ble that  you  might  say  that  which  should  not 
be  said." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  said — nothing  which 
T  could  say,  which  I  would  not  say  at  the  town 
cross  if  it  were  possible.  As  to  this  money,  I 
do  not  know  whether  I  stole  it  or  whether  I  did 
not." 

"That  is  just  what  I  have  thought." 

"It  is  so." 

"Then  you  did  not  steal  it.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  about  that." 

"  Thank  you,  Dr.  Tempest.  I  thank  you 
heartily  for  saying  so  much.  But,  Sir,  you  are 
not  the  jury.  Nor,  if  you  were,  could  you  white- 
wash me  from  the  infamy  which  has  been  cast 
on  me.  Against  the  opinion  expressed  at  the 
beginning  of  these  proceedings  by  the  bishop  of 
the  diocese^ — or  rather  against  that  expressed  by 
his  wife — I  did  venture  to  make  a  stand.  Nei- 
ther the  opinion  which  came  from  the  palace,  nor 
the  vehicle  by  which  it  was  expressed,  command- 
ed my  respect.  Since  that  others  have  spoken 
to  whom  I  feel  myself  bound  to  yield — yourself 
not  the  least  among  them.  Dr.  Tempest — and  to 
them  I  shall  yield.  You  may  tell  the  Bishop  of 
Bai'chester  that  I  shall  at  once  resign  the  per- 
petual curacy  of  Hogglestock  into  the  hands  of 
the  Dean  of  Barchester,  by  whom  I  was  ap- 
pointed." 

"  No,  Mr.  Crawley ;  I  shall  not  do  that.  I 
can  not  control  you ;  but  thinking  you  to  be 
wrong,  I  shall  not  make  that  communication  to 
the  bishop." 

"Then  I  shall  do  so  myself." 

"And  your  wife,  Mr.  Crawley,  and  your 
children  ?" 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Crawley  called  to  mind 
the  advice  of  his  friend  Giles  Hoggett.  "  It's 
dogged  as  does  it."  He  certainly  wanted  some- 
thing very  strong  to  sustain  him  in  his  difficulty. 
He  found  that  this  reference  to  his  wife  and 
children  required  him  to  be  dogged  in  a  very 
marked  manner.      "  I  can  only  trust  that  the 


wind  may  be  tempered  to  them,"  he  said. 
"They  will,  indeed,  be  shorn  lambs." 

Dr.  Tempest  got  u])  from  his  chair,  and  took 
a  couple  of  turns  about  the  room  before  he  spoke 
again.  "Man,"  he  said,  addressing  Mr.  Craw- 
ley with  all  his  energy,  "if  you  do  this  thing 
you  will  then  at  least  be  very  wicked.  If  the 
jury  find  a  verdict  in  your  favor  you  are  safe, 
and  the  chances  arc  that  the  verdict  will  be  in 
your  favor." 

"  I  care  nothing  now  for  the  verdict,"  said 
Mr.  Crawley. 

"And  you  will  turn  your  wife  into  tlie  poor- 
house  for  an  idea !" 

"It's  dogged  as  does  it,"  said  Mr.  Crawley 
to  himself.  "  I  have  thought  of  that,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "That  my  wife  is  dear  to  me,  and  that 
my  children  are  dear,  I  will  not  deny.  She 
was  softly  nurtured.  Dr.  Tempest,  and  came 
from  a  house  in  which  want  was  never  known. 
Since  she  has  shared  my  board  she  has  had  some 
experience  of  that  nature.  That  I  should  have 
brought  her  to  all  this  is  very  terrible  to  me — ^so 
terrible  that  I  often  -wonder  how  it  is  that  I  live. 
But,  Sir,  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  my  duty 
as  a  clergyman  is  above  every  thing.  I  do  not 
dare,  even  for  their  sake,  to  remain  in  the  par- 
ish. Good-morning,  Dr.  Tempest."  Dr.  Tem- 
pest, finding  that  he  could  not  prevail  with  him, 
bade  him  adieu,  feeling  that  any  service  to  the 
Crawleys  within  his  power  might  be  best  done 
by  intercession  with  the  bishop  and  with  the 
dean. 

Then  Mr.  Crawley  walked  back  to  Hoggle- 
stock, repeating  to  himself  Giles  Hoggett's 
words,  "It's  dogged  as  does  it." 


CHAPTER  LXIL 

MR.  CRAWLET'S  letter  TO  THE  DEAN. 

Mr.  Crawley,  when  he  got  home  after  his 
walk  to  Silverbridge,  denied  that  he  was  at  all 
tired.  "The  man  at  Silverbridge  whom  I 
went  to  see  administered  refreshment  to  me 
— nay,  he  administered  it  with  salutary  vio- 
lence," he  said,  affecting  even  to  laugh.  "And 
I  am  bound  to  speak  well  of  him  on  behalf  of 
mercies  over  and  beyond  that  exhibited  by  the 
persistent  tender  of  some  wine.  That  I  should 
find  him  judicious  I  had  expected.  What  little 
I  have  known  of  hira  taught  me  so  to  think  of 
him.  But  I  found  with  him  also  a  softness  of 
heart  for  which  I  had  not  looked." 

"And  you  will  not  give  up  the  living,  Jo- 
siah  ?" 

)  "Most  certainly  I  will.  A  duty,  when  it  is 
clear  before  a  man,  should  never  be  made  less 
so  by  any  tenderness  in  others."  He  was  still 
thinking  of  Giles  Hoggett.  "It's  dogged  as 
docs  it."  The  poor  woman  could  not  answer 
him.  She  knew  well  that  it  was  vain  to  argue 
with  him.  She  could  only  hope  that  in,  the 
event  of  his  being  acquitted  at  the  trial,  the 
dean,  whose  friendship  she  did  not  doubt,  might 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


281 


re-endow  him  with  tlie  small  benefice  which  was 
their  only  source  of  bread. 

On  the  following  morning  there  came  by  post 
a  short  note  from  Dr. Tempest.  "My  dear  Mr. 
CraAvley,"  the  note  ran,  "I  implore  you,  if  therq' 
be  yet  time,  to  do  nothing  rashly.  And  even 
although  you  should  have  written  to  the  bishop 
or  to  the  dean,  your  letters  need  have  no  effect 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  make  them  inoperative. 
Permit  me  to  say  that  I  am  a  man  much  older 
than  you,  and  one  who  has  mixed  much  both 
with  clergymen  and  with  the  world  at  large.  I 
tell  you  with  absolute  confidence  that  it  is  not 
your  duty  iu  your  present  position  to  give  up 
your  living.  Should  your  conduct  ever  be  called 
iu  question  on  this  matter  you  will  be  at  perfect 
liberty  to  say  that  you  were  guided  by  my  ad- 
vice. You  should  take  no  step  till  after  the 
trial.  Then,  if  the  verdict  be  against  you,  you 
should  submit  to  the  bishop's  judgment.  If  the 
verdict  be  in  your  favor,  the  bishop's  intei-fer- 
ence  will  be  over. 

'•And  you  must  remember  that  if  it  is  not 
your  duty  as  a  clergyman  to  give  up  your  liv- 
ing, 3'OU  can  have  no  right,  seeing  that  you 
have  a  wife  and  family,  to  throw  it  away  as  an 
indulgence  to  your  pride.  Consult  any  other 
friend  you  please — Mr.  Robarts,  or  the  dean 
himself.  I  am  quite  sure  that  any  friend  who 
knows  as  many  of  the  circumstances  as  I  know 
will  advise  you  to  hold  the  living,  at  any  rate 
till  after  the  trial.  You  can  refer  any  such 
friend  to  me. 

"Believe  me  to  be,  yours  very  truly, 

"Mortimer  Tempest." 

Mr.  Crawley  walked  about  again  with  this 

letter  in  his  pocket,  but  on  this  occasion  he  did 

not  go  in  the  direction  of  Hog;,dc  End.     From 

Hogglc  End  be  could  hardlv  hope  to  pick  up 

S 


further  lessons  of  wisdom.  What  could  any 
Giles  lloggett  say  to  him  beyond  what  he  had 
said  to  him  already?  If  he  were  to  read  the 
doctor's  letter  to  lloggett,  and  to  succeed  in 
making  lloggett  understand  it  all,  lloggett  could 
only  caution  him  to  be  dogged.  But  it  seemed 
to  him  that  lloggett  and  his  new  friend  at  Sil- 
verbridge  did  not  agree  in  their  doctrines,  and 
it  might  be  well  that  he  should  endeavor  to  find 
out  which  of  them  had  most  of  justice  on  his 
side.  He  was  quite  sure  that  lloggett  would 
advise  him  to  adhere  to  his  jn'ojcct  of  giving  up 
the  living— if  only  lloggett  could  be  made  to 
understand  the  circumstances. 

He  had  written,  but  had  not  as  yet  sent  away 
Ills  letter  to  the  dean. 

His  letter  to  the  bishop  would  be  but  a  note, 
and  he  had  postponed  tiie  writing  of  that  till 
the  other  should  be  copied  and  made  complete. 

He  had  sat  up  late  into  the  night  composing 
and  altering  his  letter  to  his  old  friend,  and  now 
that  the  composition  was  finished  he  was  loth 
to  throw  it  away.  Early  in  this  morning,  be- 
fore the  postman  had  brought  to  him  Dr.  Tem- 
pest's urgent  remonstrance,  he  had  shown  to  his 
wife  the  draught  of  his  letter  to  the  dean.  "  I 
can  not  say  that  it  is  not  true,"  she  had  said. 

"It  is  certainly  true." 

"But  I  wish,  dear,  you  would  not  send  it. 
Why  should  you  take  any  step  till  the  trial  be 
over  ?" 

"I  shall  assuredly  send  it,"  he  had  replied. 
"If  you  will  peruse  it  again  you  will  see  that 
the  epistle  would  be  futile  were  it  kept  till  I  shall 
have  been  proved  to  be  a  thief." 

"Oh,  Josiah,  such  words  kill  me." 

"They  are  not  pleasant,  but  it  will  be  well 
that  you  should  become  used  to  them.  As  for 
the  letter,  I  have  taken  some  trouble  to  express 
myself  with  perspicuity,  and  I  trust  that  I  may 
have  succeeded."  At  that  time  Hoggett  was 
altogether  in  the  ascendant ;  but  now,  as  he 
started  on  his  walk,  his  mind  was  somewhat  per- 
turbed by  the  contrary  advice  of  one  who,  after 
all,  might  be  as  wise  as  Hoggett.  There  would 
be  nothing  dogged  in  the  conduct  recommended 
to  him  by  Dr.  Tempest.  Were  he  to  follow  the 
doctor's  advice,  he  would  be  trimming  his  sails 
so  as  to  catch  any  slant  of  a  breeze  that  might 
be  favorable  to  him.  There  could  be  no  dog- 
gedness  in  a  character  that  would  submit  to  such 
trimming. 

The  postman  came  to  Hogglestock  but  once 
in  a  day,  so  that  he  could  not  dispatch  his  letter 
till  the  next  morning — unless,  indeed,  he  chose 
to  send  it  a  distance  of  four  miles  to  the  nearest  f 
post-office.  As  there  was  nothing  to  justify  this, 
there  was  another  night  for  the  copying  of  his 
letter — should  he  at  last  determine  to  send  it. 
He  had  declared  to  Dr.  Tempest  that  he  would 
send  it.  He  had  sworn  to  his  wife  that  it  should 
go.  He  had  taken  much  trouble  with  it.  He 
believed  in  Hoggett.  But,  nevertheless,  this 
incumbency  of  Hogglestock  was  his  all  in  the 
world.  It  might  be  that  he  could  still  hold  it, 
and  have  bread  at  least  for  his  wife  to  eat.    Dr. 


282 


THE  LASL  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Tempest  had  told  him  that  he  would  be  pvoba- 
hly  acciiiitted.  Dr.  Tempest  knew  as  much  of 
all  the  cireumstauces  as  did  he  himself,  and 
had  told  him  tb.at  he  was  not  guilty.  After  all, 
Dr.  Tempest  knew  more  about  it  than  Hogyett 
knew. 

If  he  resigned  the  living,  what  would  become 
of  him — of  him — of  him  and  of  his  wife?  Wliith- 
cr  would  they  first  go  when  they  turned  their 
back  ujion  the  door  inside  which  there  had  at 
any  rate  been  slicltcr  for  them  for  many  years  ? 
He  calculated  every  thing  that  he  had,  and 
found  that  at  the  end  of  April,  even  when  he 
should  have  received  his  rent -charge,  there 
would  not  be  five  pounds  in  hand  among  them. 
As  for  his  furniture,  he  still  owed  enough  to 
make  it  impossible  that  lie  should  get  any  thing 
out  of  that.  And  these  tiioughts  all  had  refer- 
ence to  his  ]iosition  if  he  should  be  acquitted. 
What  would  become  of  his  wife  if  he  should  be 
convicted  ?  And  as  for  himself,  whither  should 
he  go  when  he  came  out  of  prison  ? 

He  had  completely  realized  the  idea  that 
Hoggett's  counsel  was  opjiosed  to  that  given  to 
him  by  Dr.  Tempest ;  but  then  it  might  certainly 
be  the  case  that  Hoggett  had  not  known  all  the 
facts.  A  man  should,  no  doubt,  be  dogged 
when  the  evils  of  life  are  insuperable  ;  but  need 
he  be  so  wlien  the  evils  can  be  overcome  ? 
Would  not  Hoggett  himself  undergo  any  treat- 
ment which  lie  believed  to  be  sjiccific  for  rheu- 
matism ?  Yes ;  Hoggett  would  undergo  any 
treatment  that  was  not  in  itself  opposed  to  his 
duty.  The  best  treatment  for  rheumatism 
might  be  to  stay  away  from  the  brick-field  on  a 
rainy  day ;  but  if  so  there  would  be  no  money 
to  keep  the  ])ot  boiling,  and  Hoggett  would  cer- 
tainly go  to  the  brick-field,  rheumatism  and  all, 
as  long  as  his  limbs  would  carry  him  there. 
Yes;  he  would  send  his  letter.  It  was  his  duty, 
and  he  would  do  it.  Men  looked  askance  at 
him,  and  pointed  at  him  as  a  thief.  He  would 
send  the  letter,  in  spite  of  Dr.  Tempest.  Let 
justice  be  done,  though  the  heaven  may  fall. 

He  had  heard  of  Lady  Lufton's  offer  to  his 
wife.  The  offers  of  the  Lady  Luftons  of  the 
world  had  been  sorely  distressing  to  his  spirit, 
since  it  liad  first  come  to  jiass  that  such  otters 
had  reached  him  in  consequence  of  his  poverty. 
But  now  there  was  something  almost  of  relief 
to  him  in  the  thought  that  the  Lady  Luftons 
would,  after  some  fashion,  save  his  wife  and 
children  from  starvation  ;  would  save  his  wife 
from  the  poor-house,  and  enable  his  children  to 
have  a  start  in  the  world.  For  one  of  his  chil- 
dren a  brilliant  marriage  might  be  provided — 
if  only  he  himself  were  out  of  the  way.  How 
could  he  take  himself  out  of  the  way?  It  had 
been  whispered  to  him  that  he  might  be  impris- 
oned for  two  months — or  for  two  years.  Would 
it  not  be  a  grand  thing  if  the  judge  would  con- 
demn him  to  be  imprisoned  for  life  ?  Was 
there  ever  a  man  whose  existence  was  so  pur- 
poseless, so  useless,  so  deleterious,  as  his  own  ? 
And  yet  he  knew  Hebrew  well,  whereas  the 
dean  knew  but  very  little  Hebrew.     He  could 


make  Greek  iambics,  and  doubted  whether  the 
bishop  knew  the  difference  between  an  iambus 
and  a  trochee.  He  could  disport  himself  with 
trigonometry,  feeling  confident  that  Dr.  Tempest 
had  forgotten  his  way  over  the  asses'  bridge. 
He  knew  "  Lycidas"  by  heart;  and  as  for 
Thumblc,  he  felt  quite  sure  that  Thumble  was 
incompetent  of  understanding  a  single  allusion 
in  that  divine  poem.  Nevertheless,  though  all 
this  wealth  of  acquirement  Avas  his,  it  would  be 
better  for  himself,  better  for  those  who  belonged 
to  him,  better  for  the  world  at  large,  that  he 
should  he  put  an  end  to.  A  sentence  of  penal 
servitude  for  life,  witliout  any  trial,  would  be  of 
all  things  tiie  most  desirable.  Then  there  would 
1)0  ample  room  for  the  practice  of  that  virtue 
which  Hoggett  had  taught  him. 

When  he  returned  home  the  Hoggethan  doc- 
trine prevailed,  and  he  prepared  to  coj)y  his  let- 
ter. But  before  he  commenced  his  task  he  sat 
down  with  his  youngest  daughter,  and  read — 
or  made  her  read  to  him — a  passage  out  of  a 
Greek  poem,  in  which  are  described  the  trou- 
bles and  agonies  of  a  blind  giant.  No  giant 
would  have  been  more  powerful — only  that  he 
was  blind,  and  could  not  see  to  avenge  himself 
on  those  who  had  injured  him.  "The  same 
story  is  always  coming  up,''  he  said,  stopping 
the  girl  in  her  reading.  "We  have  it  in  vari- 
ous versions,  because  it  is  so  true  to  life. 
Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves. 

It  is  the  same  stor}-.  Great  power  reduced  to 
impotence,  great  glory  to  misery,  by  the  hand 
of  Fate — Necessity,  as  the  Greeks  called  her ; 
the  goddess  that  will  not  be  shunned!  At  the 
mill  with  slaves !  People,  when  they  read  it, 
do  not  appreciate  the  horror  of  the  picture. 
Go  on,  my  dear.  It  may  be  a  question  wheth- 
er Polyphemus  had  mind  enough  to  suffer;  but, 
from  the  description  of  his  power,  I  should  think 
that  he  had.  '  At  the  mill  with  slaves  !'  Can 
any  jiicture  be  more  dreadful  than  that  ?  Go 
on,  my  dear.  Of  course  you  remember  Mil- 
ton's Samson  Agonistes.  Agonistes  indeed!" 
His  wife  was  sitting  stitching  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room ;  but  she  heard  his  words — heard 
and  understood  them ;  and  before  Jane  could 
again  get  herself  into  the  swing  of  the  Greek 
verse  she  was  over  at  her  husband's  side,  with 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  "My  love!"  she 
said.      "My  love!" 

He  turned  to  her,  and  smiled  as  he  spoke  to 
her.  "These  are  old  thoughts  with  me.  Poly- 
phemus and  Belisarius,  and  Samson  and  Mil- 
ton, have  always  been  pets  of  mine.  The  mind 
of  the  strong  blind  creature  must  be  so  sensible 
of  the  injury  that  has  been  done  to  him !  The 
impoteney,  combined  with  his  strength,  or  rath- 
er the  impoteney  with  the  memory  of  former 
strength  and  former  aspirations,  is  so  essentially 
tragic !" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and 
there  was  something  of  the  flash  of  old  days, 
when  the  world  was  young  to  them,  and  when 
he  would  tell  her  of  his  hopes,  and  repeat  to  her 


THE  LxVST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


283 


long  passages  of  iJoetry,  and  would  criticise  for 
her  advantage  the  works  of  old  writers.   "Thank 
God,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  not  blind.     It' 
may  yet  be  all  right  with  you." 

"Yes — it  may  be,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  shall  not  be  at  the  mill  with 
slaves. " 

"Or,  at  any  rate,  not  eyeless  in  Gaza,  if  the 
Lord  is  good  to  me.  Come,  Jane,  we  will  go 
on."  Then  he  took  up  the  passage  himself, 
and  read  it  on  with  clear,  sonorous  voice,  every 
now  and  then  explaining  some  passage  or  ex- 
pressing his  own  ideas  upon  it,  as  thougli  he 
were  really  happy  with  his  poetry. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  he  got  out 
his  small  stock  of  best  letter  paper,  and  sat 
down  to  work  at  his  letter.  lie  first  addressed 
himself  to  the  bishop ;  and  what  he  wrote  to 
the  bishop  was  as  follows  : 

"  IIOGGLESTOCK   PARSONAGE,  A2ml  11,  1SG-. 

"My  Lokd  Bisiior, — I  have  been  in  com- 
munication with  Dr.  Tempest,  of  Silverbridge, 
from  whom  I  have  learned  that  your  lordshij) 
has  been  pleased  to  appoint  a  commission  of 
inquiry — of  which  commission  he  is  the  chair- 
man— with  reference  to  the  proceedings  which 
it  may  be  necessary  that  you  should  take,  as 
bishop  of  this  diocese,  after  my  forthcoming  trial 
at  the  approaching  Barchester  assizes.  My  lord, 
I  think  it  right  to  inform  you,  partly  with  a 
view  to  the  comfort  of  the  gentlemen  named  oiif 
that  commission,  and  partly  with  the  purport  ojf 
giving  you  that  information  which  I  think  that 
a  bishop  should  possess  in  regard  to  the  clerical 
affairs  of  his  own  diocese,  that  I  have  by  this  post 
resigned  my  preferment  at  Hogglestock  into  the 
hands  of  the  Dean  of  Barchester,  by  whom  it 
was  given  to  me.  In  tliesc  circumstances  it 
will,  I  suppose,  be  unnecessary  for  you  to  con- 
tinue the  commission  which  you  have  set  in 
force ;  but  as  to  that,  your  lordship  will,  of 
course,  be  the  only  judge. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  my  Lord  Bishop, 

"Your  most  obedient  and  very  humble  serv- 
ant, JosiAH  Crawley, 

"Perpetual  Curate  of  Hogglestock. 

"The  Eight  Reverend  the  Bishop  of  Barchester,  etc. 

"The  Palace,  Barchester." 

But  the  letter  which  was  of  real  importance— 
which  was  intended  to  say  something— was  that 
to  the  dean,  and  that  also  shall  be  given  to  tlie 
reader.  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  for  a  while  in 
doubt  how  he  should  address  his  old  friend  in 
commencing  this  letter,  understanding  that  its 
tone  throughout  must,  in  a  great  degree,  be 
made  conformable  with  its  first  words.  He 
would  fain,  in  his  pride,  have  begun  "Sir." 
The  question  was  between  that  and  "  My  dear 
Arabin."  It  had  once  between  them  always 
been  "  Dear  Frank"  and  "  Dear  Joe  ;"  but  the 
occasions  for  "Dear  Frank"  and  "Dear  Joe" 
between  them  had  long  been  passed.  Crawley 
would  have  been  very  angry  had  he  now  been 
called  Joe  by  the  dean,  and  would  have  bitten 
his  tongue  out  before  he  would  have  called  the 


dean  Frank.  His  better  nature,  however,  now 
prevailed,  and  he  began  his  letter,  and  com- 
pleted it  as  follows  : 

"  My  dicak  Arahin, — Circumstances,  of  which 
you  have  probably  heard  something,  comjjcl  me 
to  write  to  you,  as  I  fear,  at  some  length.  I 
am  sorry  that  the  trouble  of  such  a  letter  should 
be  forced  upon  you  during  your  holidays" — Mr. 
Crawley,  as  he  wrote  this,  did  not  forget  to  re- 
mind himself  that  he  never  had  any  holidays — 
"but  I  think  you  will  admit,  if  you  will  bear 
with  me  to  the  end,  that  I  have  no  alternative. 

"I  have  been  accused  of  stealing  a  check  for 
twenty  pounds,  which  check  was  drawn  by  my 
Lord  Lufton  on  his  London  bankers,  and  was 
lost  out  of  his  pocket  by  Mr.  Soames,  his  lord- 
ship's agent,  and  was  so  lost,  as  ]\Ir.  Soames 
states — not  with  an  absolute  assertion — during 
a  visit  which  he  made  to  my  parsonage  here  at 
Hogglestock.  Of  the  fact  that  I  paid  the  check 
to  a  tradesman  in  Silverbridge  there  is  no  doubt. 
When  questioned  about  it,  I  first  gave  an  answer 
which  was  so  manifestly  incorrect  that  it  has  seem- 
ed odd  to  me  that  I  should  not  have  had  credit  for 
a  mistake  from  those  who  must  have  seen  that 
detection  was  so  evident.  The  blunder  was  un- 
doubtedly stupid,  and  it  now  bears  heavy  on  me. 
I  then,  as  I  have  learned,  made  another  error — 
of  which  I  am  aware  that  you  have  been  in- 
formed. I  said  that  the  check  had  come  to  me 
from  you,  and  in  saying  so  I  thought  that  it 
had  formed  a  portion  of  that  alms  which  your 
open-handed  benevolence  bestowed  upon  me 
when  I  attended  on  you,  not  long  before  your 
departure,  in  your  library.  I  have  striven  to 
remember  the  facts.  It  may  be — nay,  it  prob- 
ably is  the  case — that  such  struggles  to  catch 
some  accurate  glimpse  of  by-gone  things  do  not 
trouble  you.  Your  mind  is,  no  doubt,  clearer 
and  stronger  than  mine,  having  been  kept  to  its 
proper  tune  by  greater  and  fitter  work.  With 
me,  memory  is  all  but  gone,  and  the  power  of 
thinking  is  on  the  wane !  I  struggled  to  re- 
member, and  I  thought  that  the  check  had  been 
in  the  envelope  which  you  handed  to  me — and  I 
said  so.  I  have  since  learned,  from  tidings  re- 
ceived, as  I  am  told,  direct  from  yourself,  that 
I  was  as  wrong  in  the  second  statement  as  I  had 
been  in  the  first.  The  double  blunder  has,  of 
course,  been  very  heavy  on  me. 

"  I  was  taken  before  the  magistrates  at  Sil- 
verbridge, and  was  by  them  committed  to  stand 
my  trial  at  the  assizes  to  be  holdcn  in  Barches- 
ter on  the  28th  of  this  month.  Without  doubt 
the  magistrates  had  no  alternative  but  to  com- 
mit me,  and  I  am  indebted  to  them  that  they 
have  allowed  me  my  present  liberty  upon  bail. 
That  my  suflTerings  in  all  this  should  have  been 
grievous,  you  will  understand.  But  on  that 
head  I  should  not  touch  were  it  not  that  I  am 
bound  to  explain  to  you  that  my  troubles  in 
reference  to  this  parish  of  Hogglestock,  to  which 
I  was  appointed  by  you,  have  not  been  the 
slightest  of  those  sufferings.  I  felt  at  first,  be- 
lieving then  that  the  world  around  me  would 


284 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


think  it  unlikely  that  such  a  one  as  I  had  will- 
fully stolen  a  sum  of  money,  that  it  was  my  duty 
to  maintain  myself  in  my  church.  I  did  so 
maintain  myself  against  an  attack  made  upon 
me  by  the  bishop,  who  sent  over  to  Hogglcstock 
one  Mr.  Tliumble,  a  gentleman  doubtless  in 
holy  orders,  though  I  know  nothing  and  can 
learn  nothing  of  the  place  of  his  cure,  to  dis- 
possess me  of  my  pulpit  and  to  remove  me  from 
my  ministrations  among  my  people.  To  Mr. 
Thumble  I  turned  a  deaf  car,  and  would  not  let 
him  somucli  as  open  his  mouth  inside  the  porch 
of  my  church.  Up  to  this  time  I  myself  have 
road  tlic  services,  and  have  ])reached  to  the  peo- 
|>lo,  and  liave  continued,  as  best  I  could,  my 
visits  to  tlie  poor  and  my  labors  in  the  school, 
tliougli  I  know — no  one  knows  as  well — how  un- 
fitted I  am  for  such  work  by  the  grief  which  has 
fallen  upon  me. 

"  Tlien  the  bishop  sent  for  me,  and  I  thought 
it  becoming  on  my  part  to  go  to  him.  I  pre- 
sented myself  to  his  lordsliip  at  his  palace,  and 
was  minded  to  be  much  governed  in  my  con- 
duct by  what  he  might  say  to  me,  remembering 
that  I  am  bound  to  respect  tlie  office,  even 
though  I  may  not  approve  the  man  ;  and  I  hum- 
bled myself  before  his  lordship,  waiting  patient- 
ly for  any  directions  wiiich  he  in  his  discretion 
might  think  it  proper  to  bestow  on  me.  But 
there  arose  up  between  us  that  very  pestilent 
woman,  his  wife — to  his  dismay,  seemingly,  as 
much  as  to  mine — and  she  would  let  there  be 
place  for  no  speecli  but  her  own.  If  there  be 
aught  clear  to  me  in  ecclesiastical  matters  it  is 
this — that  no  authority  can  be  delegated  to  a 
female.  The  special  laws  of  this  and  of  some 
other  countries  do  allow  that  women  shall  sit 
upon  the  temporal  thrones  of  the  earth,  but  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  throne  of  the  Cluircii 
no  woman  has  been  allowed  to  sit  as  bearing 
autliority,  the  romantic  tale  of  the  woman  Poijc 
notwithstanding.  Thereupon  I  left  the  palace 
in  wrath,  feeling  myself  aggrieved  tiiat  a  wo- 
man should  have  attempted  to  dictate  to  me, 
and  finding  it  hopeless  to  get  a  clear  instruction 
from  his  lordship — the  woman  taking  up  tlie 
word  whenever  I  put  a  question  to  my  lord  the 
bishop.  Notliing,  therefore,  came  of  tliat  inter- 
view but  fruitless  labor  to  myself,  and  anger,  of 
which  I  have  since  been  ashamed. 

"  Since  that  time  I  have  continued  in  my 
parish — working  not  without  zeal,  though  in 
truth  almost  without  hope — and  learning  even 
from  day  to  day  that  the  opinions  of  men  around 
me  have  declared  me  to  be  guilty  of  tlie  crime 
imputed  to  me.  And  now  the  bishop  has  issued 
a  commission  as  preparatory  to  proceeding 
against  me  under  the  Act  for  the  punishment 
of  clerical  offenses.  In  doing  this,  I  can  not 
say  that  tlie  bishop  has  been  ill-advised,  even 
tliough  the  advice  may  have  come  from  that 
evil-tongued  lady,  his  wife.  And  I  hold  that  j 
a  woman  may  be  called  on  for  advice,  with  most  [ 
salutary  effect,  in  affairs  as  to  which  any  show 
of  female  authority  would  be  equally  false  and 
pernicious.     With  mo  it  has  ever  been  so,  and  i 


\  I  have  had  a  counselor  by  me  as  wise  as  she 
has  been  devoted."  It  must  be  noticed  tluit  in 
the  draught  copy  of  his  letter  which  Mr.  Craw- 
ley gave  to  his  wife  to  read  this  last  sentence 
j  was  not  inserted.  Intending  that  she  slioukl 
I  read  his  letter,  he  omitted  it  till  he  made  the  fair 
coi)y.  "  Over  this  commission  his  lordship  has 
api)ointcd  Dr.  Temiiest,  of  Silverbridge,  to  pre- 
side, and  with  him  I  have  been  in  communica- 
tion. I  trust  that  the  labors  of  tlic  gentlemen 
of  whom  it  is  composed  may  be  brought  to  a 
si)eedy  close  ;  and,  having  regard  to  their  trou- 
ble, which  in  such  a  matter  is,  I  fear,  left  with- 
out remuneration,  I  have  informed  Dr.  Tempest 
that  I  should  write  this  letter  to  you  with  the 
intent  and  assured  puqjose  of  resigning  the  per- 
petual curacy  of  Ilogglestock  into  your  hands. 

"  You  will  be  good  enough,  therefore,  to  un- 
derstand that  I  do  so  resign  tlie  living,  and  that 
I  shall  continue  to  administer  the  senices  of 
the  church  only  till  some  clergyman,  certified 
to  me  as  coming  from  you  or  from  the  bishop, 
may  present  himself  in  the  parish,  and  shall  de- 
clare himself  ])repared  to  undertake  the  cure. 
Should  it  be  so  that  Mr.  TlmmUe  be  sent  hither 
again,  I  will  sit  under  him,  endeavoring  to  catch 
improvement  from  his  teaching,  and  striving  to 
overcome  the  contempt  which  I  felt  for  him  ' 
when  he  before  visited  this  parish.  I  annex  be- 
neath my  signature  a  copy  of  the  letter  which 
I  have  written  to  the  bishop  on  this  subject. 

"And  now  it  behooves  me,  as  the  guardian- 
ship of  the  souls  of  those  around  mo  was  placed 
in  my  hands  by  you,  to  explain  to  yon  as  shortly 
as  may  be  possible  the  reasons  which  have  in- 
duced me  to  abandon  my  work.  One  or  two 
whose  judgment  I  do  not  discredit — and  I  am 
allowed  to  name  Dr.  Tempest,  of  Silverbridge,  as 
one — have  suggested  to  me  that  I  should  take 
no  step  myself  till  after  my  trial.  They  think 
tliat  I  should  have  regard  to  the  chance  of  the 
verdict,  so  that  the  preferment  may  still  be  mine 
slionld  I  be  acquitted  ;  and  they  say  that  should 
I  be  acquitted,  the  bishop's  action  against  me 
must  of  necessity  cease.  That  they  are  right 
in  these  facts  I  do  not  doubt ;  but  in  giving  such 
advice  they  look  only  to  facts,  having  no  regard  to 
the  conscience.  I  do  not  blame  them.  I  should 
give  such  advice  myself,  knowing  that  a  friend 
may  give  counsel  as  to  outer  things,  but  that  a 
man  must  satisfy  his  inner  conscience  by  his  own 
perceptions  of  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong. 

"I  find  myself  to  be  ill-spoken  of,  to  be  re- 
garded with  hard  eyes  by  those  around  me,  my 
people  thinking  that  I  have  stolen  this  money. 
Two  farmers  in  tliis  parish  have,  as  I  am  aware, 
expressed  opinions  that  no  jury  could  acquit  me 
honestly,  and  neither  of  these  men  have  ap- 
peared in  my  church  since  the  expression  of  that 
opinion.  I  doubt  whether  they  have  gone  to 
other  churches;  and  if  not  they  have  been  de- 
terred from  all  public  worship  by  my  presence. 
If  this  be  so,  how  can  I  with  a  clear  conscience 
remain  among  these  men?  Shall  I  take  from 
their  hands  ^^•ages  for  those  administrations 
which  their  deliberately  formed  opinions  will 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


28S 


not  allow  them  to  accept  from  my  hr.nJs  ?"  And 
yet,  thou{:;h  ho  thus  jtleatled  nr;ainst  himself,  he 
knew  that  the  two  men  of  whom  he  was  speak- 
ing were  thick-headed  dolts  who  were  always 
tipsy  on  Saturday  nights,  and  wlio  came  to  church 
perhaps  once  in  three  weeks. 

"  Your  kind  heart  will  douhtlcss  proni])t  3'ou 
to  tell  me  that  no  clergj'man  could  he  safe  in 
his  parish  if  he  were  to  allow  the  oi>inion  of 
chance  parishioners  to  prevail  against  him  ;  and 
you  would  ])rohabIy  lay  down  for  my  guidance 
that  grand  old  doctrine,  'Nil  conscirc  sibi,  nulla 
pallescere  culpa.'  Presuming  that  you  may  do 
so,  I  will  acknowledge  such  guidance  to  be  good. 
If  my  mind  were  clear  in  tliis  matter,  I  would 
not  budge  an  inch  for  any  farmer — no,  nor  for 
any  bishop,  farther  than  he  might  by  law  com- 
pel me !  But  my  mind  is  not  clear.  I  do  grow 
pale,  and  my  hair  stands  on  end  with  horror,  as 
I  confess  to  myself  that  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  stole  this  money  or  no !  Such  is  the  fact.  In 
all  sincerity  I  tell  you  that  I  know  not  whether 
I  be  guilty  or  innocent.  It  may  be  that  I  pick- 
ed up  the  check  from  the  floor  of  my  room,  and 
afterward  took  it  out  and  used  it,  not  knowing 
whence  it  had  come  to  me.  If  it  be  so,  I  stole 
it,  and  am  guilty  before  the  laws  of  my  country. 
If  it  be  so,  I  am  not  fit  to  administer  the  Lord's 
sacraments  to  these  people.  When  the  cup  was 
last  in  my  hand  and  I  was  blessing  them  I  felt 
that  I  was  not  fit,  and  I  almost  dropped  the  chal- 
ice. That  God  will  know  my  weakness  and  par- 
don me  the  perplexity  of  my  mind — that  is  be- 
tween Him  and  His  creature. 

"  As  I  read  my  letter  over  to  myself  I  feel 
how  weak  are  my  words,  and  how  inefficient  to 
explain  to  you  the  exact  position  in  which  I 
stand ;  but  they  will  suffice  to  convince  you 
that  I  am  assuredly  purposed  to  resign  this  par- 
ish of  Hogglestock,  and  that  it  is  therefore  in- 
cumbent on  you,  as  patron  of  the  living,  to  nom- 
inate my  successor  to  the  benefice.  I  have  only 
further  to  ask  your  pardon  for  this  long  letter, 
and  to  thank  you  again  for  the  many  and  great 
marks  of  friendship  which  you  have  conferred 
on  me.  Alas !  could  you  have  foreseen  in  those 
old  days  how  barren  of  all  good  would  have  been 
the  life  of  him  you  then  esteemed,  you  might 
perhaps  have  escaped  the  disgrace  of  being 
called  the  friend  of  one  whom  no  one  now  re- 
gards with  esteem. 

"Nevertheless,  I  may  still  say  that  I  amj 
"With  all  affijction,  yours  truly, 

"  JosiAii  Crawley." 

The  last  paragraph  of  the  letter  was  also 
added  since  his  wife  had  read  it.  When  he  had 
first  composed  his  letter  he  had  been  somewhat 
proud  of  his  words,  thinking  that  he  had  clearly 
told  his  story.  But  when,  sitting  alone  at  his 
desk,  he  read  it  again,  filling  his  mind  as  he 
went  on  with  ideas  which  he  would  fain  have 
expressed  to  his  old  friend,  were  it  not  that  he 
feared  to  indulge  himself  with  too  many  words, 
he  began  to  tell  himself  that  his  story  was  any 
tiring  but  well  told.     There  was  no  expression 


there  of  the  Iloggcthan  doctrine.  In  answer  to 
sucli  a  letter  as  that  the  dean  might  well  say, 
"Think  again  of  it.  Try  yet  to  save  yourself. 
Never  mind  the  two  farmers,  or  Mr.  Thumble, 
or  the  bishop.  Stick  to  the  ship  while  there  is 
a  plank  above  the  water."  Whereas  it  had  been 
his  desire  to  use  words  that  should  make  the 
dean  clearly  understand  that  the  thing  was  de- 
cided. He  had  failed— as  he  had  failed  in  every 
thing  throughout  his  life ;  but  nevertlieless  the 
letter  must  go.  Were  he  to  begin  again  he 
would  not  do  it  better.  So  he  added  to  what 
he  had  written  a  copy  of  his  note  to  the  bishop, 
and  the  letter  was  fastened  and  sent. 

Mrs.  Crawley  might  probably  have  been  more 
instant  in  her  efi'orts  to  stop  the  letter,  had  she 
not  felt  that  it  would  not  decide  every  thing. 
In  the  first  place,  it  was  not  improbable  that  the 
letter  might  not  reach  the  dean  till  after  his  re- 
turn home — and  Mrs.  Crawley  had  long  since 
made  up  her  mind  t-hat  she  would  see  the  dean 
as  soon  as  possible  after  his  return.  She  had 
heard  from  Lady  Lufton  that  it  was  not  doubted 
in  Barchester  that  he  would  be  back  at  any  rate 
before  the  judges  came  into  the  city.  And  then, 
in  the  next  place,  was  it  probable  that  the  dean 
would  act  upoji  such  a  letter  by  filling  up  the 
vacanc}',  even  if  he  did  get  it?  She  trusted  in 
the  dean,  and  knew  that  he  would  help  them, 
if  any  help  were  possible.  Should  the  verdict 
go  against  her  husband,  then  indeed  it  might  be 
that  no  help  would  be  possible.  In  such  case 
she  thought  that  the  bishop  with  his  commission 
might  prevail.  But  she  still  believed  that  the 
verdict  would  be  favorable — if  not  with  an  as- 
sured belief,  still  with  a  hope  that  was  sufficient 
to  stand  in  lieu  of  a  belief.  No  single  man,  let 
alone  no  twelve  men,  could  think  that  her  hus- 
band had  intended  to  appropriate  that  money 
dishonestly.  That  he  had  taken  it  improperly 
— without  real  possession — she  herself  believed; 
but  he  had  not  taken  it  as  a  thief,  and  could  not 
merit  a  thief's  punishment. 

After  two  days  he  got  a  reply  from  the  bish- 
op's chaplain,  in  which  the  chaplain  expressed 
the  bishop's  commendation  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
present  conduct.  "  Mr.  Thumble  shall  proceed 
from  hence  to  Hogglestock  on  next  Sunday," 
said  the  chaplain,  "and  shall  relieve  ypu  for 
the  present  from  the  burden  of  your  duties.  As 
to  the  future  status  of  the  parish,  it  will  perhaps 
be  hest  that  nothing  shall  be  done  till  the  dean 
returns — or  perhaps  till  the  assizes  shall  be  over. 
This  is  the  bishop's  opinion."  It  need  hardly 
be  explained  that  the  promised  visit  of  Mr. 
Thumble  to  Hogglestock  was  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  Mr.  Crawley.  He  had  told  the  dean 
that  should  Mr.  Thumble  come  he  would  en- 
deavor to  learn  something  even  from  him.  But 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  Mr.  Crawley  in  his 
present  mood  could  learn  any  thing  useful  from 
Mr.  Thumble.  Giles  Hoggett  was  a  much  more 
effective  teacher. 

"  I  will  endure  even  that,"  he  said  to  his  wife, 
as  she  handed  to  him  back  the  letter  from  the 
bishop's  chaplain. 


2&6 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


CHAPTEK  LXIIL 

TWO    VISITORS    TO    IIOGGLKSTOCK. 

Thk  cross-KraincJness  of  men  is  so  great  that 
tilings  will  often  be  forced  to  go  wron<:;,  even 
when  they  have  the  strongest  possible  iiatnral 
tendency  of  their  own  to  go  right.  It  was  so 
now  in  tiiese  atVairs  between  the  archdeacon  and 
his  son.  The  original  difhculty  was  solved  by 
tlie  good  feeling  of  the  young  lady — by  that  and 
by  the  real  kindness  of  the  archdeacon's  nature. 
They  had  come  to  terms  which  were  .satisfac- 
tory to  both  of  them,  and  those  terms  admitted 
of  perfect  reconciliation  between  the  father  and 
his  son.  Whetlier  the  major  did  marry  the 
lady  or  wliether  he  did  not,  his  allowance  was 
to  be  continued  to  him,  the  archdeacon  being 
perfectly  willing  to  trust  himself  in  the  matter 
to  the  pledge  which  he  had  received  from  Miss 
Crawley.  All  that  he  rcfpurcd  from  his  son 
was  simjjly  this — that  he  should  pull  down  the 
bills  advertising  the  sale  of  his  effects.  Was 
any  desire  ever  more  rational?  The  sale  had 
been  advertised  for  a  day  just  one  week  in  ad- 
vance of  the  assizes,  and  the  time  must  have 
been  selected— so  thought  the  archdeacon — with 
a  malicious  intention.  Why,  at  any  rate,  should 
the  things  be  sold  before  any  one  knew  whether 
the  father  of  the  young  lady  was  or  was  not  to 
be  regarded  as  a  thief?  And  why  should  the 
things  be  sold  at  all,  when  the  archdeacon  had 
tacitly  withdrawn  his  threats — when  he  had 
given  his  son  to  understand  that  the  allowance 
would  still  be  paid  quarterly  with  the  custom- 
ary archidiaconal  regularity,  and  that  no  altei"- 
ation  was  intended  in  those  settlements  under 
which  the  Plumstead  foxes  would,  in  the  ripe- 
ness of  time,  become  the  property  of  the  major 
himself?  It  was  thus  that  the  archdeacon  looked 
at  it,  and  as  he  did  so  he  thought  that  his  son 
was  the  most  cross-grained  of  men. 

But  the  major  had  his  own  way  of  looking 
at  the  matter.  lie  had,  he  flattered  himself, 
dealt  very  fairly  with  his  father.  Wlien  he  had 
first  made  up  his  mind  to  make  Miss  Crawley 
his  wife  he  had  told  his  father  of  his  intention. 
The  archdeacon  had  declared  that,  if  he  did 
so,  such  and  such  results  would  follow — I'esults 
which,  as  was  a])parent  to  every  one,  would 
make  it  indispensable  that  the  major  should 
leave  Cosby  Lodge.  The  major  had  never 
complained.  So  he  told  himself.  He  had 
simply  said  to  his  ftither :  "I  shall  do  as  I  have 
said.  You  can  do  as  you  have  said.  There- 
fore I  shall  prepare  to  leave  Cosby  Lodge." 
He  had  so  prepared ;  and  as  a  part  of  that  prep- 
aration the  auctioneer's  bills  had  been  stuck 
lip  on  the  posts  and  walls.  Then  the  archdeacon 
had  gone  to  work  surreptitiously  w^ith  the  lady 
— the  reader  will  understand  that  we  are  still  fol- 
lowing the  workings  of  the  major's  mind — and 
having  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  pledge  which 
he  had  been  wrong  to  demand,  came  forward 
very  graciously  to  withdraw  his  threats.  He 
withdrew  his  threats  because  he  had  succeeded 
in  his  object  by  other  means.     The  major  knew 


nothing  of  the  kiss  that  had  been  given,  of  tho 
two  tears  that  had  trickled  down  his  father's 
nose,  of  the  generous  epithets  which  the  arch- 
deacon had  aj)j)lied  to  Grace.  He  did  not 
guess  how  nearly  his  father  had  yielded  alto- 
gether beneath  the  pressure  of  Grace's  charms 
— how  willing  he  was  to  yield  altogether  at  the 
first  decent  opportunity.  His  father  had  ob- 
tained a  jiledge  from  Grace  that  she  would  not 
marry  in  certain  circumstances — as  to  which 
circumstances  the  major  was  strongly  resolved 
that  they  should  form  no  bar  to  his  marriage — 
and  then  came  forward  with  his  eager  demand 
that  the  sale  should  be  stojiped !  The  major 
could  not  submit  to  so  much  indignity.  lie 
had  resolved  that  his  father  should  have  nothing 
to  do  with  his  marriage  one  way  or  the  other. 
He  would  not  accejit  any  thing  from  his  father 
on  the  understanding  that  his  father  had  any 
such  right.  His  fiither  had  asserted  such  right 
with  threats,  and  he,  the  major,  taking  such 
threats  as  meaning  something,  had  seen  that  he 
must  leave  Cosby  Lodge.  Let  his  father  come 
forward  and  say  that  they  meant  nothing,  that 
he  abandoned  all  right  to  any  interference  as 
to  his  son's  marriage,  and  then  the  son — would 
dutifully  consent  to  accept  his  father's  bounty  I 
They  were  both  cross-grained,  as  Mrs.  Grantly 
declared  ;  but  I  think  that  the  major  was  the 
most  cross-grained  of  the  two. 

Something  of  the  truth  made  its  way  into 
Henry  Grantly's  mind  as  he  drove  himself  home 
from  Barchester  after  seeing  his  grandfather. 
It  was  not  that  he  began  to  think  that  his  fa- 
ther was  right,  but  that  he  almost  perceived  that 
jit  might  be  becoming  in  him  to  forgive  some 
fault  in  his  father.  He  had  been  implored  to 
honor  his  father,  and  he  was  willing  to  do  so, 
understanding  that  such  honor  must,  to  a  certain 
degree,  imply  obedience — if  it  could  be  done  at 
no  more  than  a  moderate  expense  to  his  feel- 
ings. The  threatened  auctioneer  was  the  cause 
of  oflFense  to  his  father,  and  he  might  see  wheth- 
er it  would  not  be  possible  to  have  the  sale  post- 
poned. There  would,  of  course,  be  a  pecuni- 
ary loss,  and  that,  in  his  diminished  circum- 
stances— he  would  still  talk  to  himself  of  his 
diminished  circumstances— might  be  inconven- 
ient. But  so  much  he  thought  himself  bound 
to  endure  on  his  father's  behalf.  At  any  rate, 
he  would  consult  the  auctioneer  at  Silver- 
bridge. 

But  he  would  not  make  any  pause  in  the 
measures  which  he  had  proposed  to  himself  as 
likely  to  be  conducive  to  his  marriage.  As  for 
Grace's  pledge,  such  pledges  from  young  ladies 
never  went  for  any  thing.  It  was  out  of  the 
question  that  she  should  be  sacrificed,  even 
though  her  father  had  taken  the  money.  And, 
moreover,  the  very  gist  of  the  major's  generosi- 
ty was  to  consist  in  his  marrying  her  whether 
the  father  were  guilty  or  innocent.  He  under- 
stood that  perfectly,  and  understood  also  that 
it  was  his  duty  to  make  his  purpose  in  this  re- 
spect known  to  Grace's  family.  He  determined, 
tlierefore,   that  he  would   go  over   to   Hoggle- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


287 


stock,  and  sec  Mr.  Cniwlcy  before  he  saw  the 
auctioneer. 

Hitherto  Major  Grantly  liad  never  even  spok- 
en to  Mr.  Crawley.  It  may  be  remembered 
that  the  major  was  at  the  ])resent  moment  one 
of  the  bailsmen  for  the  due  a])pearancG  of  Mr. 
Crawley  before  the  judge,  and  that  he  had  been 
present  when  the  magistrates  sat  at  the  inn  in 
Silverbridge.  He  therefore  knew  the  man's 
presence,  but  except  on  that  occasion  he  had 
never  even  seen  his  intended  future  father-in- 
law.  From  tlie  moment  when  he  had  first  al- 
lowed himself  to  think  of  Grace  he  had  desired, 
yet  almost  feared,  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  father,  but  liad  been  debarred  from  doing 
so  by  the  peculiar  position  in  which  Mr.  Craw- 
ley was  placed.  He  had  felt  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  speak  to  the  father  of  his  affec- 
tion for  the  daughter  without  any  allusion  to 
the  coming  trial;  and  lie  did  not  know  how 
such  allusion  could  be  made.  Thinking  of  this, 
he  had  at  different  times  almost  resolved  not  to 
call  at  Ilogglestock  till  the  trial  should  be  over. 
Then  he  would  go  there,  let  the  result  of  the 
trial  have  been  what  it  might.  But  it  had  now 
become  necessary  for  him  to  go  on  at  once.  His 
father  had  precipitated  matters  by  his  appeal  to 
Grace.  He  would  appeal  to  Grace's  father,  and 
reach  Grace  through  his  influence. 

He  drove  over  to  Ilogglestock,  feeling  him- 
self to  be  any  thing  but  comfortable  as  he  came 
near  to  the  house.  And  when  he  did  reach  the 
spot  he  was  somewhat  disconcerted  to  find  that 
another  visitor  was  in  the  house  before  him.  He 
presumed  this  to  be  the  case,  because  there  stood 
a  little  pony  horse — an  animal  which  did  not 
strongly  recommend  itself  to  his  instructed  eye 
— attached  by  its  rein  to  the  palings.  It  was 
a  poor,  humble-looking  beast,  whose  knees  had 
very  lately  become  acquainted  with  the  hard  and 
sharp  stones  of  a  newly-mended  highway.  The 
blood  was  even  now  red  upon  the  wounds. 

"He'll  never  be  much  good  again,"  said  the 
major  to  his  servant. 

"  That  he  won't.  Sir,"  said  the  man.  "But 
I  don't  think  he's  been  very  much  good  for  some 
time  back." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  to  ride  him  into 
Silverbridge,"  said  the  major,  descending  from 
the  gig,  and  instructing  his  servant  to  move  the 
horse  and  gig  about  as  long  as  he  might  remain 
within  the  house.  Then  he  walked  across  the 
little  garden  and  knocked  at  the  door.  The 
door  was  immediately  opened,  and  in  the  pas- 
sage he  found  Mr.  Crawley,  and  another  clergy- 
man whom  the  reader  will  recognize  as  Mr. 
Thumble.  Mr.  Thumble  had  come  over  to 
make  arrangements  as  to  the  Sunday  services 
and  the  parochial  work,  and  had  been  very  urg- 
ent in  impressing  on  Mr.  Crawley  tliat  the  du- 
ties were  to  be  left  entirely  to  himself.  Hence 
had  come  some  bitter  words,  in  which  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, though  no  doubt  he  said  the  sharper  things 
of  the  two,  had  not  been  able  to  vanquish  his  en- 
emy so  completely  as  he  had  done  on  former 
occasions. 


"  There  must  be  no  interference,  my  dear 
Sir — none  whatever,  if  you  please,"  Mr.  Thum- 
ble had  said. 

"There  shall  be  none  of  which  the  bishop 
shall  have  reason  to  complain,"  Mr.  Crawley  had 
replied. 

"There  must  be  none  at  all,  Mr.  Crawley, 
if  you  please.  It  is  only  on  that  understanding 
that  I  have  consented  to  take  the  parish  tempo- 
rarily into  my  hands.  Mis.  Crawley,  I  hope 
that  there  may  be  no  mistake  about  the  schools. 
It  must  be  exactly  as  though  I  were  residing  on 
the  spot." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  very  irate  at  this 
appeal  to  his  wife,  and  speaking  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  do  you  misdoubt  my  word  ;  or  do  you  think 
that  if  I  were  minded  to  be  false  to  you  that  I 
should  be  corrected  in  my  falsehood  by  the  firm- 
er faith  of  my  wife?" 

"  I  meant  nothing  about  falsehood,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley." 

"  Having  resigned  this  benefice  for  certain 
reasons  of  my  own,  with  which  I  shall  not  trou- 
ble you,  and  acknowledging  as  I  do — and  have 
done  in  writing  imder  my  hand  to  the  bishop — 
the  propriety  of  his  lordship's  interference  in 
providing  for  the  services  of  the  parish  till  my 
successor  shall  have  been  instituted,  I  shall,  with 
what  feelings  of  regret  I  need  not  say,  leave  you 
to  the  ])erformance  of  your  temporary  duties!" 

"That  is  all  that  I  require,  Mr.  Crawley." 

"  But  it  is  wholly  unnecessary  that  you 
should  instruct  me  in  mine." 

"The  bishop  especially  desires" — began  Mr. 
Thumble.  But  Mr.  Crawley  interrupted  him 
instantly  : 

"If  the  bishop  has  directed  you  to  give  me 
such  instruction,  the  bishop  has  been  much  in 
error.  I  will  submit  to  receive  none  from  him 
through  you.  Sir.  If  j'ou  please,  Sir,  let  there 
be  an  end  of  it;"  and  Mr.  Crawley  waved  his 
hand.  I  hope  that  the  reader  will  conceive  the 
tone  of  Mr.  Crawley's  voice,  and  will  appreci- 
ate the  aspect  of  his  face,  and  will  see  the  mo- 
tion of  his  hand  as  he  spoke  these  latter  words. 
Mr.  Thumble  felt  the  power  of  the  man  so  sensi- 
bly that  he  was  unable  to  carry  on  the  contest. 
Though  IMr.  Crawley  was  now  but  a  broken 
reed,  and  was  beneath  his  feet,  yet  Mr.  Thum- 
ble acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  could  not 
hold  his  own  in  debate  with  this  broken  reed. 
But  tlie  words  had  been  spoken,  and  the  tone 
of  the  voice  had  died  away,  and  the  fire  in  th3 
eyes  had  burned  itself  out  before  the  moment 
of  the  major's  arrival.  Mr.  Thumble  was  now 
returning  to  his  horse,  and  having  enjoyed — if 
he  did  enjoy — his  little  triumph  about  the  par- 
ish, was  becoming  unhappy  at  the  future  dan- 
gers that  awaited  him.  Perhaps  he  was  the 
more  unhappy  because  it  had  been  proposed  to 
him  by  authorities  at  the  palace  that  he  should 
repeatedly  ride  on  the  same  animal  from  Bar- 
chester  to  Ilogglestock  and  back.  Mr.  Crawley 
was  in  the  act  of  replying  to  lamentations  on 
this  subject,  with  his  hand  on  the  latch,  when 
the  major  arrived — "I  regret  to  say.  Sir,  that 


288 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


I  can  not  assist  you  by  siip|ilying  any  other 
steed."  Tlicn  tlie  major  hail  knocked,  and  Mr. 
Crawley  had  at  once  opened  the  door. 

"Yon  probably  do  not  remember  mc,  Mr. 
Crawley?"  said  the  major.  "I  am  Major 
Crantly."  Mrs.  Crawley,  Avho  heard  these 
words  inside  the  room,  sprant:^  nj)  from  her  chair, 
and  could  hardly  resist  the  temiitation  to  rush 
into  the  passage.  She  too  had  barely  seen  Ma- 
jor Grantly;  and  now  the  only  bri^'lit  j,'leam 
which  appeared  on  her  horizOTi  de])cnded  on  his 
constancy  under  circumstances  whicli  would  have 
justified  his  inconstancy.  15iit  had  he  meant 
to  be  inconstant,  surely  he  would  never  have 
come  to  Ilogglestock ! 

"I  remember  you  well,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Craw- 
ley. "I  am  under  no  common  obligation  to 
j'ou.     You  arc  at  present  one  of  my  bailsmen." 

"There's  nothing  in  that,"  said  the  major. 

Mr.  Thumble,  who  had  caught  the  name  of 
Grantly,  took  oft'  his  hat,  which  he  had  put  on  his 
head.  He  had  not  been  particular  in  kcci)ing 
oft"  his  hat  before  Mr.  Crawley.  Kut  he  knew 
very  well  that  Archdeacon  Grantly  was  a  big 
man  in  the  diocese ;  and  though  the  Grantlys 
and  the  Proudies  were  opposed  to  each  other, 
still  it  might  be  well  to  take  oft'  his  hat  before 
any  one  who  had  to  do  with  the  big  ones  of  the 
diocese.  "I hope  your  respected  father  is  well. 
Sir?"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you."  The  major  stood 
close  up  against  the  wall  of  the  passage,  so  as 
to  allow  room  for  Mr.  Thumble  to  pass  out. 
His  business  was  one  on  which  he  could  hardly 
begin  to  speak  until  the  other  visitor  should 
have  gone.  Mr.  Crawley  was  standing  with  the 
door  wide  open  in  his  band.  He  also  was  anx- 
ious to  be  rid  of  Mr.  Thumble,  and  was  perhaps 
not  so  solicitous  as  a  brother  clergyman  should 
have  been  touching  the  future  fate  of  Mr.  Thum- 
ble in  the  matter  of  the,  bishop's  old  cob. 

"  Really  I  don't  know  what  to  do  as  to  get- 
ting upon  him  again,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"If  you  will  allow  him  to  progress  slowly," 
said  Mr.  Crawley,  "he  will  probably  travel  with 
the  greater  safety." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  slow,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley. I  was  ever  so  much  over  two  hours  com- 
ing here  from  Barchester.  He  stumbled  almost 
at  every  step." 

"  Did  he  fall  while  you  were  on  him  ?"  asked 
the  major. 

"Indeed  he  did,  Sir.  You  never  saw  such 
a  thing,  Major  Grantly.  Look  here."  Then 
Mr.  Thumble,  turning  round,  showed  that  the 
rear  portion  of  his  clothes  had  not  escaped  with- 
out injury. 

"It  was  well  he  was  not  going  fast,  or  you 
would  have  come  on  to  your  head, "  said  Grantly. 

"It  was  a  mercy,"  said  Thumble.  "But, 
Sir,  as  it  was,  I  came  to  the  ground  with  much 
violence.  It  was  on  Spigglewick  Hill,  where  the 
road  is  covered  with  loose  stones.  I  see.  Sir, 
you  have  a  gig  and  horse  here,  with  a  servant. 
Perhaps,  as  the  circumstances  are  so  very  pe- 
culiar— "    Then  Mr.  Thumble  stopped,  and  look- 


ed up  into  the  major's  face  with  imploring  eyes. 
But  the  major  had  no  tenderness  for  sucli  sutt'er- 
ings.  "I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  going  quite 
the  other  way,"  he  said.  "I  am  returning  to 
Silverbridgc." 

Mr.  Thumble  hesitated,  and  then  madft  a  re- 
newed request.  "If  you  would  not  mind  tak- 
ing mc  to  Silverbridgc,  I  could  get  home  from 
thence  by  railway  ;  and  jjcrhajis  you  would  al- 
low your  servant  to  take  the  horse  to  Barches- 
ter." 

Major  Grantly  was  for  a  moment  dumfoundcd. 
"The  request  is  most  unreasonable,  Sir,"  said 
Mr.  Crawley. 

"  That  is  as  Major  Grantly  pleases  to  look  at 
it,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  is  quite  out  of  my 
power,"  said  the  major. 

"You  can  surely  walk,  leading  the  beast,  if 
you  fear  to  mount  him,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"I  shall  do  as  I  please  about  that,"  s.aid  Mr. 
Thumble.  "And,  Mr.  Crawley,  if  you  will 
have  the  kindness  to  leave  things  in  the  parish 
just  as  they  are — just  as  they  are,  I  will  be 
obliged  to  you.  It  is  the  bishop's  wish  that  you 
should  touch  nothing."  Mr.  Thumble  was  by 
this  time  on  the  step,  and  Mr.  Crawley  instantly 
slammed  the  door.  "  The  gentleman  is  a  cler- 
gyman from  Barchester,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  mod- 
estly folding  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  "whom 
the  bishop  has  sent  over  hero  to  take  upon  him- 
self temporarily  the  services  of  the  church,  and, 
as  it  appears,  the  duties  also  of  the  parish.  I 
refrain  from  animadverting  upon  his  lordship's 
choice." 

"And  are  you  leaving  Hogglestock  ?" 

"When  I  have  found  a  shelter  for  my  wife 
and  children  I  shall  do  so ;  nay,  peradventure, 
I  must  do  so  before  any  such  shelter  can  be 
found.  I  shall  proceed  in  that  matter  as  I  am 
bid.  I  am  one  who  can  regard  myself  as  no 
longer  possessing  the  privilege  of  free  action  in 
any  thing.  But  while  I  have  a  room  at  your 
service  permit  me  to  ask  you  to  enter  it."  Then 
Mr.  Crawley  motioned  him  in  with  his  hand,  and 
Major  Grantly  found  himself  in  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Crawley  and  her  younger  daughter. 

He  looked  at  them  both  for  a  moment,  and 
could  trace  much  of  the  lines  of  that  face  wliicli 
he  loved  so  well.  But  the  troubles  of  life  had 
almost  robbed  the  elder  lady  of  her  beauty  ;  and 
with  the  younger,  the  awkward  thinness  of  the 
last  years  of  feminine  childhood  had  not  yet 
given  place  to  the  fulfillment  of  feminine  grace. 
But  the  likeness  in  each  was  quite  enough  to 
make  him  feel  that  he  ought  to  be  at  home  in 
that  room.  He  thought  that  he  could  love  the 
[woman  as  his  mother,  and  the  girl  as  his  sister. 
He  found  it  very  difficult  to  begin  any  conver- 
sation in  their  presence,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  be 
his  duty  to  begin.  Mr.  Crawley  had  marshaled 
him  into  the  room,  and  having  done  so,  stood 
aside  near  the  door.  Mrs.  Crawley  had  received 
him  very  graciously,  and  having  done  so,  seem- 
ed to  be  ashamed  of  her  own  hospitality.  Poor 
Jane  had  shrunk  back  into  a  distant  corner,  near 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


289 


the  open  standing-desk  at  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  read  Greek  to  her  father,  and,  of 
course,  could  not  be  expected  to  speak.  If 
Major  Grantly  could  have  found  himself  alone 
with  any  one  of  the  three — nay,  if  he  could 
have  heen  there  with  any  two,  he  could  have 
opened  his  budget  at  once ;  but,  before  all  the 
family,  he  felt  the  difficulty  of  his  situation. 
"Mrs.  Crawley,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  most 
anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  I  trust 
you  will  excuse  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  call- 
ing." 

"I  feel  grateful  to  you,  as  I  am  sure  does 
also  my  husband."  So  much  she  said,  and  then 
felt  angry  with  herself  for  saying  so  much.  Was 
she  not  expressing  her  strong  hope  that  he  might 
stand  fast  by  her  child,  whereby  the  whole  Craw- 
ley family  would  gain  so  much — and  the  Grantly 
family  lose  much,  in  the  same  proportion  ? 

* '  Sir, "  said  Mr.  Crawley,  ' '  I  owe  you  thanks, 
still  unexpressed,  in  that  you  came  forward,  to- 
gether with  Mr.  Robarts  of  Framley,  to  satisfy 
the  not  unnatural  requisition  of  the  magistrates 
before  whom  I  was  called  upon  to  appear  in  the 
early  winter.  I  know  not  why  any  one  should 
have  ventured  into  such  jeopardy  on  my  ac- 
count." 

"  There  was  nq  jeopardy,  Mr.  Crawley.  Any 
one  in  the  county  would  have  done  it." 

"I  know  not  that;  nor  can  I  see  that  there 
was  no  jeopardy.  I  trust  that  I  may  assure  you 
that  there  is  no  danger — none,  I  mean,  to  you. 
The  danger  to  myself  and  those  belonging  to  me 
is,  alas !  very  urgent.  The  facts  of  my  position 
are  pressing  close  upon  me.  Methinks  I  suffer 
more  from  the  visit  of  the  gentleman  who  has 
just  departed  from  me  than  from  any  thing  that 
has  yet  happened  to  me.  And  yet  he  is  in  his 
right — he  is  altogether  in  liis  right." 

"No,  papa;  he  is  not,"  said  Jane,  from  her 
standing-ground  near  the  upright  desk. 

"My  dear,"  said  her  father,  "you  should  bo 
silent  on  such  a  subject.  It  is  a  matter  hard  to 
be  understood  in  all  its  bearings — even  by  those 
,  who  are  most  conversant  with  them.  But  as  to 
this  we  need  not  trouble  Major  Grantly." 

After  that  there  was  silence  among  them,  and 
for  a  while  it  seemed  as  though  there  could  be 
no  approach  to  the  subject  on  which  Grantly  had 
come  thither  to  express  himself.  Mrs,  Crawley, 
in  her  despair,  said  something  about  the  weath- 
er; and  the  major,  tr^'ing  to  draw  near  the  spe- 
cial subject,  became  bold  enough  to  remark  "that 
he  had  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Craw- 
ley at  Framley."  "Mrs.  Robarts  has  been  very 
■  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley,  "very  kind  indeed. 
iYou  can  understand,  Major  Grantly,  that  this 
must  be  a  very  sad  house  for  any  young  person." 
"I  don't  think  it  is  at  all  sad,"  said  Jane,  still 
-standing  in  the  corner  by  the  upright  desk. 

Then  Major  Grantly  rose  from  his  scat  and 
walked  across  to  the  girl  and  took  her  hand. 
"You  are  so  like  your  sister," said  he.  "Your 
sister  is  a  great  friend  of  mine.  She  has  often 
spoken  to  me  of  you.  I  hope  we  shall  be  friends 
some  day."     But  Jane  could  make  no  answer 


to  this,  though  she  had  been  able  to  vindicate 
the  general  character  of  the  house  while  she  was 
left  in  her  corner  by  herself.  "I  wonder 
whether  you  would  be  angry  with  me,"  contin- 
ued the  major,  "  if  I  told  you  that  I  wanted  to 
speak  a  word  to  your  father  and  mother  alone  ?" 
To  this  Jane  made  no  reply,  but  was  out  of  the 
room  almost  before  the  words  had  reached  the 
cars  of  her  father  and  mother.  Though  she 
was  only  sixteen,  and  had  as  yet  read  nothing 
but  Latin  and  Greek — unless  we  arc  to  count 
the  twelve  books  of  Euclid  and  Wood's  Algebra, 
and  sundry  smaller  exercises  of  the  same  de- 
scription— she  understood  as  well  as  any  one 
then  present  the  reason  why  her  absence  was 
required. 

As  she  closed  the  door  the  mnjor  paused  for 
a  moment,  expecting,  or  perhaps  hoping,  that 
the  fother  or  the  mother  would  say  a  word.  But 
neither  of  them  had  a  word  to  say.  They  sat 
silent,  and  as  though  conscience-stricken.  Here 
was  a  rich  man  come,  of  whom  they  had  heard 
that  he  might  probably  wish  to  wed  their  daugh- 
ter. It  was  manifest  enough  to  both  of  them 
that  no  man  could  marry  into  their  family  with- 
out subjecting  himself  to  a  heavy  portion  of  that 
reproach  and  disgrace  which  was  attached  to 
them.  But  how  was  it  possible  that  they  should 
not  care  more  for  their  daughter — for  their  own 
flesh  and  Ldood,  than  for  the  incidental  welfare 
of  this  rich  man?  As  regarded  the  man  him- 
self they  had  heard  every  thing  that  was  good. 
Such  a  marriage  was  like  the  opening  of  para- 
dise to  their  child.  "Nil  conscire  sibi,"  said 
the  fother  to  himself,  as  he  buckled  on  his  armor 
for  tlie  fight. 

When  he  had  waited  for  a  moment  or  two 
the  major  began.  "Mrs.  Crawley,"  he  said, 
addressing  himself  to  the  mother,  "I  do  not 
quite  know  how  far  you  may  be  aware  that  I — ■ 
that  I  have  for  some  time  been — been  acquninted 
with  your  eldest  daughter." 

"I  have  heai-d  from  her  that  she  is  acquaint- 
ed with  you,"  said  Mi's.  CraAvley,  almost  pant- 
ing Avith  anxiety. 

"I  may  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  at 
once,"  said  the  major,  smiling,  "and  say  out- 
right that  I  have  come  here  to  request  your  per- 
mission and  her  father's  to  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife."  Then  he  was  silent,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Crawley  replied  to 
him.  She  looked  at  her  husband,  and  he  gazed 
at  the  fire,  and  the  smile  died  away  from  the 
major's  face  as  he  watched  the  solemnity  of 
them  both.  There  was  something  almost  for- 
bidding in  the  peculiar  gravity  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
countenance  when,  as  at  present,  something  op- 
erated within  him  to  cause  him  to  express  dis- 
sent from  any  proposition  that  was  made  to  him. 
"  I  do  not  know  how  far  this  may  be  altogether 
new  to  you,  Mrs.  Crawley, "said  the  mnjor,  wait- 
ing for  a  reply. 

"It  is  not  new  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"May  I  hope,  then,  that  you  will  not  disap- 
prove?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "I  am  so  placed 


290 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


by  the  iintowanl  circumstances  of  my  life  that  I 
can  liarUly  claim  to  exercise  over  my  own  daugh- 
ter tliat  autiiority  which  should  belong  to  a  pa- 
rent." 

"My  dear,  do  not  say  that,''  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Crawley. 

"But  I  do  say  it.  Within  three  weeks  of 
this  time  I  may  be  a  prisoner,  subject  to  the 
criminal  laws  of  my  country.  At  this  moment 
I  am  without  tlie  ]iower  of  carnini;  bread  for  my- 
self, or  for  my  wife,  or  for  my  children.  IMajor 
Grantly,  you  have  even  now  seen  the  dejiarturc 
of  the  gentleman  who  has  been  sent  here  to  take 
my  jjlace  in  this  i)arish.  I  am,  as  it  were,  an 
outlaw  here,  and  entitled  neither  to  obedience 
nor  respect  tVom  those  who  under  other  circum- 
stances would  be  bound  to  give  mc  both." 

"  Major  Grantly,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "  no 
husband  or  father  in  the  county  is  more  closely 
obeyed  or  more  thoroughly  respected  and  loved." 

''  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  major. 

"All  this,  however,  matters  nothing,"  con- 
tinued I\Ir.  Crawley,  "and  all  speech  on  such 
homely  matters  would  amount  to  an  imperti- 
nence before  you,  Sir,  were  it  not  that  you  have 
hinted  at  a  purpose  of  connecting  yourself  at 
some  future  time  with  this  unfortunate  family." 

"I  meant  to  be  plain-sjioken,  Mr.  Crawley." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  insinuate,  Sir,  that  there 
was  aught  of  reticence  in  your  words,  so  con- 
trived that  you  might  fiill  back  upon  the  vague- 
ness of  your  expression  for  protection,  should 
you  hereafter  see  fit  to  change  your  purpose.  I 
should  have  wronged  you  much  by  such  a  sug- 
gestion. I  rather  was  minded  to  make  known 
to  you  that  I — or,  I  should  rather  say,  we,"  and 
]\Ir.  Crawley  pointed  to  his  wife — "shall  not 
accept  your  ])lainness  of  speech  as  betokening 
an;iht  beyond  a  conceived  idea  iu  furtherance 
o*^  which  you  have  thought  it  expedient  to  make 
certain  incpiiries." 

"I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  said  the  major. 
"But  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  give  me  your 
consent  to  visit  your  daughter;  and  I  want 
Mis.  Crawley  to  write  to  Grace  and  tell  her  that 
it's  ail  right."  Mrs.  Crawley  was  quite  sure 
tliat  it  was  all  right,  and  was  ready  to  sit  down 
and  write  the  letter  that  moment,  if  her  husband 
would  permit  her  to  do  so. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  have  not  been  explicit," 
said  Mr.  Crawley,  "but  I  will  endeavor  to  make 
myself  more  plainly  intelligible.  My  daughter. 
Sir,  is  so  circumstanced  in  reference  to  her  fa- 
ther, that  I,  as  her  father  and  as  a  gentleman,  can 
not  encourage  any  man  to  make  a  tender  to  her 
of  his  hand." 

"  But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  about  all  that." 

"And  I,  Sir,  have  made  up  mine.  I  dare 
not  tell  my  girl  that  I  think  she  will  do  well  to 
]ilace  her  hand  in  yours.  A  lady,  wiien  she  does 
that,  should  feel  at  least  that  her  hand  is  clean." 

"It  is  the  cleanest  and  the  sweetest  and  the 
fairest  hand  in  Barsetshire,"  said  the  major. 
j\Irs.  Crawley  could  not  restrain  herself,  but 
runniim-  up  to  him,  took  his  hand  in  hers  and 
kissed  it. 


"There  is  unfortunately  a  stain,  which  is  vi- 
carial," began  Mr.  Crawley,  sustaining  up  to 
that  point  his  voice  with  Roman  fortitude — 
with  a  fortitude  which  would  have  been  Roman 
hail  it  not  at  that  moment  broken  down  under 
the  j)ressure  of  human  feeling.  He  could  keep 
it  u])  no  longer,  but  continued  his  s))eech  with 
broken  sobs,  and  with  a  voice  altogether  clianged 
in  its  tone — rapid  now,  whereas  it  had  before 
been  slow  — natural,  whereas  it  had  hitherto 
been  affected — human,  whereas  it  had  hitherto 
been  Roman.  "Major  Grantly,"  he  said,  "I 
am  sore  beset ;  but  what  can  I  say  to  you  ? 
My  darling  is  as  p>n'e  as  the  light  of  day — only 
that  she  is  soiled  with  my  imj)urity.  She  is  fit 
/to  grace  the  house  of  the  best  gentleman  in  En- 
gland, had  I  not  made  her  unfit." 

"She  shall  grace  mine,"  said  the  major. 
"By  God,  she  shall! — to-morrow,  if  she'll  have 
me."  Mrs.  Crawley,  who  was  standing  beside 
him,  again  raised  bis  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  It  may  not  be  so.  As  I  began  by  saying 
— or  rather  strove  to  say,  for  I  have  been  over- 
taken by  weakness,  and  can  not  speak  my  mind 
— I  can  not  claim  authority  over  my  child  as 
would  another  man.  How  can  I  exercise  au- 
thority from  between  a  prison's  bars?" 

"  She  would  obey  your  slightest  wish,"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley. 

"I  could  express  no  wish,"  said  he.  "But 
I  know  my  girl,  and  I  am  sure  that  she  will  not 
consent  to  take  infamy  with  her  into  the  house 
of  the  man  who  loves  her." 

"  There  will  be  no  infamy,"  said  the  major. 
"  Infiimy  !  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  be  proud  of 
the  connection." 

"You,  Sir,  are  generous  in  your  prosperity. 
We  will  strive  to  be  at  least  just  in  our  adversi- 
ty. My  wife  and  children  are  to  be  pitied — be- 
cause of  the  husband  and  the  father." 

" No !"  said  Mrs.  Crawley.  "I  will  not  heai 
that  said  without  denying  it." 

"  But  they  must  take  their  lot  as  it  has  been 
given  to  them,"  continued  he.  "Such  a  posi- 
tion in  life  as  that  which  you  have  proposed,  to 
bestow  upon  my  child  would  be  to  her,  as  re- 
gards human  affairs,  great  elevation.  And 
from  what  I  have  heard — I  may  be  permitted 
to  add  also  from  what  I  now  learn  by  personal 
experience — such  a  marriage  would  be  laden 
with  fair  promise  of  future  happiness.  But  if 
you  ask  my  mind,  I  think  that  my  child  is  not 
fi'ee  to  make  it.  You,  Sir,  have  many  rela- 
tives, who  are  not  in  love,  as  you  are,  all  of 
whom  would  be  affected  by  the  stain  of  my  dis- 
grace. You  have  a  daughter,  to  whom  all  your 
solicitude  is  due.  No  one  should  go  to  your 
house  as  your  second  wife  who  can  not  feel  that 
she  will  serve  your  child.  My  daugliter  would 
feel  that  she  was  bringing  an  injury  upon  the 
babe.  I  can  not  bid  her  do  this — and  I  will  not. 
Nor  do  I  believe  that  she  would  do  so  if  I  bade 
her."  Then  he  turned  his  chair  round,  and  sat 
with  bis  face  to  the  wall,  wiping  away  the  tears 
with  a  tattered  handkerchief. 

Mrs  Crawley  led  the  major  away  to  the  fur- 


THE  LAST  CIIROlN'ICLi^:  OF  BARSET. 


291 


titer  window,  and  there  stood  lookinp;  up  into 
his  face.  It  need  hardly  be  snid  that  they  also 
■were  crying.  Whose  eyes  could  have  been  dry 
after  such  a  scene — upon  liearing  such  words  ? 
"You  had  better  go,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley,  "  I 
know  him  so  well.     You  had  better  go." 

"Mrs.  Crawley,"  he  said,  whispering  to  her, 
"if  I  ever  desert  her,  may  all  that  1  love  de- 
sert me  !     But  you  will  help  mc  ?"  ■' 
"  You  would  want  no  help  were  it  not  for 
this  trouble." 

"But  you  will  help  me  ?" 
Then  she  jiaused  a  moment.      "I  can  do  no- 
thing," she  said,  "but  what  he  bids  me." 

'You  will  trust  me,  at  any  rate?"  said  the 
major. 

"  I  do  trust  you,"  she  replied.  Then  he  went 
without  saying  a  word  further  to  Mr.  Crawley. 
As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  the  wife  went  over  to 
her  husband,  and  put  her  arm  gently  round  his 
neck  as  he  was  sitting.  For  a  while  the  hus- 
band took  no  notice  of  his  wife's  caress,  but  sat 
motionless,  with  his  face  still  turned  to  the  wall. 
Then  she  sjioke  to  him  a  word  or  two,  telling 
him  that  their  visitor  was  gone.  "  My  child !" 
he  said.  "My  poor  child!  my  darling!  She 
has  found  grace  in  this  man's  sight;  but  even 
of  that  has  her  father  robbed  her !  The  Lord 
has  visited  upon  the  children  the  sins  of  the  fa- 
ther, and  will  do  so  to  the  third  and  fourth  gen- 
eration." 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

THE  TRAGKDY  IN  HOOK  COUKT. 

Conway  Dalrtmplk  had  hurried  out  of  the 
foom  in  Mr^.  Broughton's  house  in  which  he 
lad  been  painting  Jael  and  Sisera,  thinking  that 
t  would  be  better  to  meet  an  angry  and  perhaps 
|ipsy  husband  on  the  stairs,  than  it  would  be 


either  to  wait  for  him  till  he  should  make  his 
way  into  his  wife's  room,  or  to  hide  away  from 
him  with  the  view  of  escajiing  altogether  from 
so  disagreeable  an  encounter.  He  had  no  fear 
of  the  man.  He  did  not  think  tiiat  there  would 
be  any  violence — nor,  as  regarded  himself,  did 
he  much  care  if  there  was  to  bo  violence.  But 
he  felt  that  he  was  bound,  as  far  as  it  might  be 
possible,  to  screen  the  poor  woman  from  the  ill 
eftects  of  her  husband's  temper  and  condition. 
He  was,  therefore,  prepared  to  stop  Broughton 
on  the  stairs,  and  to  use  some  force  in  arresting 
him  on  his  way,  should  he  find  the  man  to  be 
really  intoxicated.  But  he  had  not  descended 
above  a  stair  or  two  before  he  was  aware  that 
the  man  below  him,  whose  step  had  been  heard 
in  the  hall,  was  not  intoxicated,  and  that  ho 
was  not  Uobbs  Broughton.  It  was  Mr.  Mus- 
sclboro. 

"It  is  you,  is  it?"  said  Conway.  "I  thought 
it  was  Broughton."  Then  he  looked  into  the 
man's  face,  and  saw  that  he  was  ashy  pale.  All 
tliat  appearance  of  low-bred  jauntiness  which 
used  to  belong  to  him  seemed  to  have  been 
washed  out  of  him.  His  hair  had  forgotten  to 
curl,  his  gloves  had  been  thrown  aside,  and  even 
/his  trinkets  were  out  of  sight.  "What  has 
happened?"  said  Conway.  "  What  is  the  mat- 
ter? Something  is  wrong."  Then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  Musselboro  had  been  sent  to  the 
house  to  tell  the  wife  of  the  husband's  ruin. 

"The  servant  told  me  that  I  should  find  you 
up  stairs,"  said  Musselboro. 

"Yes ;  I  have  been  painting  here.  For  some 
time  past  I  have  been  doing  a  ])icture  of  Miss 
Van  Siever.  Mrs.  Van  Siever  has  been  here 
to-day."  Conway  thought  tliat  this  information 
would  produce  some  strong  cftect  on  Clara's  pro- 
posed husband ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  regard 
the  matter  of  the  picture  nor  the  mention  of 
^liss  Van  Sievcr's  name. 

"  She  knows  nothing  of  it  ?"  said  he.  "  She 
doesn't  know  yet?" 

"Know  what?"  asked  Conway.  "She 
knows  that  her  husband  has  lost  money." 

"Dobbs  has — destroyed  himself." 

"What!" 

"  Blew  his  brains  out  this  morning  just  inside 
the  entrance  at  Hook  Court.  The  horror  of 
drink  was  on  him,  and  he  stood  just  in  the  path- 
way and  shot  himself.  Bangles  was  standing 
at  the  top  of  their  vaults  and  saw  him  do  it.  I 
don't  think  Bangles  will  ever  be  a  man  again. 
0  Lord !  I  shall  never  get  over  it  myself.  The 
body  was  there  when  I  went  in."  Then  I\Ius- 
selboro  sank  back  against  the  wall  of  the  stair- 
case, and  stared  at  Dalrymple  as  though  he  still 
saw  before  him  the  terrible  sight  of  which  he 
had  just  spoken. 

Dalrymple  seated  himself  on  the  stairs  and 
strove  to  bring  his  mind  to  bear  on  the  tale 
which  he  had  just  heard.  What  was  he  to  do, 
and  how  was  that  poor  woman  up  stairs  to  be 
informed?  "You  came  here  intending  to  tell 
her,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  He  feared  every 
moment  that  Mrs.  Broughton  would  appear  on 


292 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


the  stairs,  and  Icnrn  from  a  word  or  two  what 
had  happened  without  any  hint  to  prepare  her 
for  the  catastrophe. 

"I  thought  you  would  be  here.  I  knew  you 
were  doing  the  picture.  He  knew  it.  Ilc'd 
had  a  letter  to  say  so — one  of  those  anonymous 
ones." 

"But  that  didn't  influence  him?" 

"I  don't  tiiink  it  was  that, "said  Musselboro. 
"  lie  meant  to  have  had  it  out  with  her ;  but  it 
wasn't  tliat  as  brought  this  about.  Terhaps  you 
didn't  know  that  he  was  clean  ruined  ?" 

'<She  had  told  me." 

"Then  she  knew  it?" 

"Oh  yes  ;  she  knew  that.  Mrs.  Van  Riever 
had  told  her.  Poor  creature!  How  arc  we 
to  break  this  to  her  ?" 

"You  and  she  are  very  thick,"  said  Mussel- 
boro. "  I  suppose  you'll  do  it  best."  By  this 
time  they  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
door  was  closed.  Dalrymple  had  put  his  hand 
on  the  other  man's  arm,  and  had  led  him  down 
stairs,  out  of  reacli  of  hearing  from  the  room 
above.  "You'll  toll  her — won't  you?"  said 
Musselboro.  Then  Dalrymple  tried  to  think 
what  loving  female  friend  there  was  who  could 
break  the  news  to  the  unfortunate  woman.  He 
knew  of  the  Van  Sievers,  and  he  knew  of  the 
Demolines,  and  he  almost  knew  that  there  was 
no  other  woman  within  reach  whom  he  was  en- 
titled to  regard  as  closely  connected  with  Mrs. 
Broughton.  He  was  well  aware  that  the  anon- 
ymous letter  of  which  Musselboro  had  just 
spoken  had  come  from  Miss  Demolines,  and  he 
could  not  go  there  for  sympathy  and  assistance. 
Nor  could  he  apply  to  Mrs.  Van  Sicver  after 
what  had  passed  this  morning.  To  Clara  Van 
Sievcr  he  would  have  applied,  but  that  it  was 
impossible  he  should  reach  Clara  except  through 
her  mother.  "  I  suppose  I  had  better  go  to 
her,"  he  said,  after  a  while.  And  then  he  went, 
leaving  Musselboro  in  the  drawing-room.  "I'm 
so  bad  with  it,"  said  Musselboro,  "that  I  really 
don't  know  how  I  shall  ever  go  up  that  court 
again." 

Conway  Dalrymple  made  his  way  up  the  stairs 
with  very  slow  steps,  and  as  he  did  so  he  could 
not  but  think  seriously  of  the  nature  of  his 
friendship  with  tliis  woman,  and  could  not  but 
condemn  himself  heartily  for  the  folly  and  in- 
iquity of  liis  own  conduct.  Scores  of  times  he 
had  professed  his  love  to  her  with  half-express- 
ed words,  intended  to  mean  nothing,  as  he  said 
to  himself  when  he  tried  to  excuse  himself,  but 
enough  to  turn  her  head,  even  if  they  did  not 
reach  her  heart.  Now,  this  woman  was  a  wid- 
ow, and  it  came  to  be  his  duty  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  so.  What  if  she.  should  claim  from 
him  now  the  love  which  he  had  so  often  proffer- 
ed to  her !  It  was  not  that  he  feared  that  she 
would  claim  any  thing  from  him  at  this  mo- 
ment— neither  now,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  the 
next  day — but  the  agony  of  the  present  meet- 
ing would  produce  others  in  which  there  would 
be  some  tenderness  mixed  with  the  agony  ;  and 
so  from  one  meeting  to  another  the  thing  would 


progress.  Dalrymple  knew  well  enough  how 
such  things  might  progress.  But  in  this  dan- 
ger before  him  it  was  not  of  himself  that  he  was 
thinking,  but  of  her.  How  could  he  assist  her 
at  such  a  time  without  doing  her  more  injury 
than  benefit  ?  And,  if  he  did  not  assist  her, 
who  would  do  so?  He  knew  her  to  be  heart- 
less ;  but  even  heartless  people  have  hearts 
which  can  be  touched  and  almost  broken  by 
certain  sorrows.  Her  heart  would  not  be  brok- 
en by  her  husband's  death,  but  it  would  become 
very  sore  if  she  were  utterly  neglected.  He  was 
now  at  the  door,  with  his  hand  on  the  lock,  and 
was  wondering  why  she  should  remain  so  long 
within  without  making  herself  heard.  Then  lie 
opened  it,  and  found  her  seated  in  a  lounging 
chair,  with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  he  could 
see  that  she  had  a  volume  of  a  novel  in  her 
hand.  He  understood  it  all.  She  Avas  pretend- 
ing to  be  indifferent  to  her  husband's  return.  lie 
walked  up  to  her,  thinking  that  she  would  rec- 
ognize his  step ;  but  she  made  no  sign  of  turn- 
ing toward  him.  He  saw  the  motion  of  her  hair 
over  the  back  of  the  chair  as  she  affected  to  make 
herself  luxuriously  comfortable.  She  was  striv- 
ing to  let  her  husband  see  that  she  cared  no- 
thing for  him,  or  for  his  condition,  or  for  his 
jealousy,  if  he  were  jealous — or  even  for  his  ruin. 
"Mrs.  Broughton,"  he  said,  when  he  was  close 
to  her.  Then  she  jumped  up  quickly,  and  turn- 
ed round,  facing  him.  "Where  is  Dobbs?'* 
she  said.      "Where  is  Broughton?" 

"He  is  not  here?" 

"He  is  in  the  house,  for  I  heard  him.  Why 
have  you  come  back?" 

Dalrymple's  eye  fell  on  the  tattered  canvas, 
and  he  thought  of  the  doings  of  the  past  month. 
He  thought  of  the  picture  of  three  Graces, 
which  was  hanging  in  the  room  below,  and  he 
thoroughly  wished  that  he  had  never  been  in- 
troduced to  the  Broughton  establishment.  How 
was  he  to  get  through  his  present  difficulty? 
"No,"  said  he,  "Broughton  did  not  come. 
It  was  Mr.  Musselboro  whose  steps  you  heard 
below." 

"What  is  he  here  for?     What  is  he  doing 
here  ?      Where  is  Dobbs  ?     Conway,  there  is 
something  the  matter.     He  has  gone  off!" 
'   "  Yes — he  has  gone  off." 

"The  coward !" 

' '  No,  he  was  not  a  coward — not  in  that  way." 

The  use  of  the  past  tense,  unintentional  as 
it  had  been,  told  the  story  to  the  woman  at  once. 
"He  is  dead, "she  said.  Then  he  took  both 
her  hands  in  his,  and  looked  into  her  face  with- 
out speaking  a  word.  And  she  gazed  at  him 
with  fixed  eyes  and  rigid  mouth,  while  the 
quick-coming  breath  just  moved  the  curl  of  her 
nostrils.  It  occurred  to  him  at  the  moment 
that  he  had  never  before  seen  her  so  wholly  un- 
affected, and  had  never  before  observed  that  she 
was  so  totally  deficient  in  all  the  elements  of 
real  beauty.  She  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 
"  Conway,"  she  said,  "  tell  it  me  all.  Why  do 
you  not  speak  to  me?" 

"  There  is  nothing  further  to  tell,"  said  he. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


293 


Tlien  she  dropped  his  hands  and  walked  away 
from  him  to  tlic  window,  and  stood  there  look- 
ing out  upon  the  stuccoed  turret  of  a  huge  house 
that  stood  opposite.  As  she  did  so  she  was  cm- 
ploying  herself  in  counting  the  windows.  Her 
mind  was  jjaralyzed  by  the  blow,  and  she  knew 
not  how  to  make  any  exertion  with  it  for  any 
purpose.  Every  thing  was  changed  with  her — 
and  was  changed  in  such  a  way  that  she  could 
make  no  guess  as  to  her  future  mode  of  life. 
She  was  suddenly  a  widow,  a  pauper,  and  utter- 
ly desolate,  while  the  only  person  in  the  whole 
world  that  she  really  liked  was  standing  close 
to  her.  But  in  the  midst  of  it  all  she  counted 
the  windows  of  the  house  opposite.  Had  it 
been  possible  for  her  she  would  have  put  her 
mind  altogether  to  sleep. 

He  let  her  stand  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
joined  her  at  the  window.  "My  friend,"  he 
said,  "  what  shall  I  do  for  you?" 

"  Do?"  she  said.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
— doing?" 

' '  Come  and  sit  down  and  let  me  talk  to  you," 
he  replied.  Then  he  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and 
as  she  seated  herself  I  doubt  whether  she  had 
not  almost  forgotten  that  her  husband  was  dead. 

"What  a  pity  it  was  to  cut  it  up,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  rags  of  Jael  and  Sisera. 

"Never  mind  the  picture  now.  Dreadful  as 
it  is,  you  must  allow  yourself  to  think  of  him  for 
a  few  minutes." 

"  Think  of  what  ?  O  God!  yes.  Conway, 
you  must  tell  me  what  to  do.  Was  every  thing 
gone  ?  It  isn't  about  myself.  I  don't  mind 
a,bout  myself.  I  wish  it  was  me  instead  of  him. 
I  do.     I  do." 

"No  vvishing  is  of  any  avail." 

"But,  Conway,  how  did  it  happen ?  Do  you 
think  it  is  true  ?  That  man  would  say  any  thing 
to  gain  his  object.     Is  he  here  now  ?" 

"  I  believe  he  is  here  still." 

"I  won't  see  him.  Remember  that.  No- 
thing on  earth  shall  make  me  see  him." 

"It  may  be  necessary,  but  I  do  not  think  it 
will  be — at  any  rate  not  yet." 

"I  will  never  see  him.  I  believe  that  he 
has  murdered  my  husband.  I  do.  I  feel  sure 
of  it.  Now  I  think  of  it  I  am  quite  sure  of  it. 
And  he  will  murder  you  too — about  that  girl. 
He  will.  I  tell  you  I  know  the  man."  Dal- 
rymple  simply  shook  his  head,  smiling  sadly. 
"Very  well;  you  will  see.  But,  Conway,  how 
do  you  know  that  it  is  true  ?  Do  you  believe 
lit  yourself?" 

"I  do  believe  it." 

"And  how  did  it  happen?" 

"He  could  not  bear  the  ruin  that  he  had 
I  brought  upon  himself  and  you." 

"Then — then — "  She  went  no  further  in 
;  her  speech  ;  but  Dalrymple  assented  by  a  slight 
motion  of  his  head,  and  she  had  been  informed 
!  sufficiently  that  her  husband  had  perished  by 
his  own  hand.  "  What  am  I  to  do?"  slie  said. 
"Oh,  Conway,  you  must  tell  me.  Was  there 
ever  so  miserable  a  woman  !     Was  it — poison  ?" 

He  got  up  and  walked  quickly  across  the  room 


and  back  again  to  the  place  where  she  was  sit- 
ting. "Never  mind  about  that  now.  You 
shall  know  all  that  in  time.  Do  not  ask  any 
questions  about  that.  If  I  were  you  I  think  I 
would  go  to  bed.  You  will  be  better  there  than 
up,  and  this  shock  will  make  you  sleep." 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  will  not  go  to  bed. 
How  should  I  know  that  that  man  would  not 
come  to  me  and  kill  me?  I  believe  he  mur- 
dered Dobbs— I  do.  You  are  not  going  to  leave 
me,  Conway?" 

"I  think  I  had  better,  for  a  while.  There 
are  things  which  should  be  done.  Shall  I  send 
one  of  the  women  to  you  ?" 

"Thei'e  is  not  one  of  them  tliat  cares  for  me 
in  the  least.  Oh,  Conway,  do  not  go  ;  not  yet. 
I  will  not  be  left  alone  in  the  house  with  him. 
You  will  be  very  cruel  if  you  go  and  leave  me 
now — when  you  have  so  often  said  that  you — 
that  yon — that  you  were  my  friend."  And  now, 
at  last,  she  began  to  weep. 

"I  think  it  will  be  best,"  he  said,  "that  I 
should  go  to  Mrs.  Van  Siever.  If  I  can  man- 
age it  I  will  get  Clara  to  come  to  you." 

"I  do  not  want  her,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 
"She  is  a  heartless,  cold  creature,  and  I  do  not 
want  to  have  her  near  me.  My  poor  husband 
was  ruined  among  them — yes,  ruined  among 
them.  It  has  all  been  done  that  she  may  mar- 
ry that  horrid  man  and  live  here  in  this  house. 
I  have  known  ever  so  long  that  he  has  not  been 
safe  among  them." 

"You  need  fear  nothing  from  Clara,"  said 
Dalrymple,  with  some  touch  of  ailger  in  his 
voice. 

' '  Of  course  you  will  say  so.  I  can  under- 
stand that  very  well.  And  it  is  natural  that 
you  should  wisli  to  be  with  her.     Pray  go." 

Then  he  sat  beside  her,  and  took  her  hand, 
and  endeavored  to  speak  to  her  so  seriously 
that  she  herself  might  become  serious,  and  if  it 
might  be  possiI)le,  in  some  degi-ee  coiitem]jla- 
tive.  He  told  her  how  necessary  it  was  that 
she  should  have  some  woman  near  her  in  her 
trouble,  and  explained  to  her  that  as  ftir  as  he 
knew  her  female  friends  there  would  be  no  one 
who  would  be  so  considerate  with  her  as  Clara 
Van  Siever.  She  at  one  time  mentioned  the 
name  of  Miss  Demolines  ;  but  Dalrymple  alto- 
gether opposed  the  notion  of  sending  for  tliat 
lady — expressing  his  opinion  that  the  amiable 
Madalina  had  done  all  in  her  power  to  crcnte 
quarrels  both  between  Mrs.  Broughton  and  her 
husband,  and  between  Dobbs  Broughton  and 
Mrs.  Van  Siever.  And  he  spoke  his  opinion 
very  fully  about  Miss  Demolines.  "And  yet 
you  liked  her  once,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton.  "I 
never  liked  her,"  said  Dalrymple,  with  energy. 
' '  But  all  that  matters  nothing  now.  Of  course 
you  can  send  for  her  if  you  please  ;  but  I  do 
not  think  her  trust-worthy,  and  I  will  not  will- 
ingly come  in  contact  with  her."  Then  Mrs. 
Broughton  gave  him  to  understand  that  of 
course  she  must  give  way,  but  that  in  giving 
way  she  felt  herself  to  be  submitting  to  that  ill- 
usage  which  is  the  ordinary  lot  of  women,  and 


294 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


to  which  she,  .iinonj^  women,  had  been  specially 
subjected.  She  did  not  exactly  say  as  niiich, 
fearing  that  if  she  did  he  would  leave  her  alto- 
gether ;  but  that  was  the  gist  of  her  plaints,  and 
wails,  and  final  acquiescence. 

"And  you  are  going?"  she  said,  catching 
hold  of  his  arm. 

"I  will  employ  myself  altogether  and  only 
about  your  affairs  till  I  see  you  again." 

"But  I  want  you  to  stay." 

"It  would  be  madness.  Look  here  —  lie 
down  till  Clara  comes  or  till  I  return.  Do  not 
go  beyond  this  room  and  your  own.  If  she  can 
not  come  this  evening  I  will  return.  Good-by 
now.  I  will  see  the  servants  as  I  go  out,  and 
tell  them  what  ought  to  be  told." 

"  Oh,  Conway  !"  she  said,  clutching  hold  of 
him  again,  "  I  know  that  you  dcsjiise  me." 

"I  do  not  despise  you,  and  I  will  be  as  good 
a  friend  to  you  as  I  can.  God  bless  you!" 
Then  he  went,  and  as  he  descended  the  stairs 
lie  could  not  refrain  from  telling  himself  that  he 
did  in  truth  despise  her. 

His  first  object  was  to  find  Musselboro,  and 
to  dismiss  that  gentleman  from  the  house.  For 
thougli  he  himself  did  not  attribute  to  Mrs.  Van 
Siever's  favorite  any  of  those  terrible  crimes  and 
potentialities  for  crime  with  which  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  invested  him,  still  he  thought  it 
reasonable  that  tlie  ))oor  woman  up  stairs  should 
not  be  subjected  to  the  necessity  of  either  see- 
ing hiim  or  hearing  him.  But  Musselboro  had 
gone,  and  Dalrymple  could  not  learn  from  the 
head  woman-servant  whom  he  saw  whether  be- 
fore going  he  had  told  to  any  one  in  the  house 
the  tale  of  the  catastrophe  which  had  happened 
in  the  City.  Servants  arc  wonderful  actors, 
looking  often  as  thougli  they  knew  nothing 
when  they  know  every  thing- — as  though  they 
understood  nothing  when  they  understand  all. 
Dalrymple  made  known  all  that  was  necessa- 
r)',  and  the  discreet  upper  servant  listened  to 
the  tale  with  a  proper  amount  of  awe  and  hor- 
ror and  commiseration.  "Shot  hisself  in  the 
City — laws !  You'll  excuse  me,  Sir,  but  we  all 
know'd  as  master  was  coming  to  no  good." 
But  she  promised  to  do  her  best  with  her  mis- 
tress— and  kept  her  promise.  It  is  seldom  that 
servants  are  not  good  in  such  straits  as  that. 

From  Mrs.  Brongliton's  house  Dalrymple  went 
directly  to  Mrs.  Van  Siever's,  and  learned  that 
Musselboro  had  been  thei'e  about  half  an  hour 
before,  and  had  then  gone  off  in  a  cab  witli  Mrs. 
Van  Siever.  It  was  now  nearly  four  o'clock  iu 
tlie  afternoon,  and  no  one  in  the  house  knew 
when  Mrs.  Van  Siever  would  be  back.  Miss 
Van  Siever  was  out,  and  had  been  out  when 
Mr.  Musselboro  liad  called,  but  was  expected  in 
every  minute.  Conway  therefore  said  that  he 
would  call  again,  and  on  returning  found  Clara 
alone.  She  had  not  then  heard  a  word  of  the 
fate  of  Dobbs  Broughton.  Of  course  she  would 
go  at  once  to  Mrs.  Broughton,  and  if  necessary 
stay  with  her  during  the  night.  She  wrote  a 
line  at  once  to  her  mother,  saying  where  she 
was,  and  went  across  to  Mrs.  Broughton,  lean- 


ing on  Dalrymjile's  arm.  "Be  good  to  her,'' 
said  Conway,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door.  "I 
will,"  said  Clara.  "I  will  be  as  kind  as  my 
nature  will  allow  me."  "And  remember,"  said 
Conway,  whispering  into  her  car  as  he  pressed 
her  hand  at  leaving  her,  "  that  you  are  all  the 
world  to  me."  It  was  perha])S  not  a  proper  1 
time  for  an  expression  of  love,  but  Clara  Van 
Siever  forgave  the  impropriety. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

MISS    VAN    SIKVEIl   MAKES    UEIi    CHOICE. 

Clara  Van  Siever  did  stay  all  that  night 
with  Mrs.  Broughton.  In  the  course  of  the 
evening  she  received  a  note  from  her  mother, 
in  which  she  was  told  to  come  home  to  break- 
fast. "You  can  go  back  to  her  afterward," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Siever;  "  and  I  will  see  her  my- 
self in  the  course  of  the  day,  if  she  will  let  me." 
Tiic  note  was  written  on  a  scrap  of  i)aper,  and 
liad  neither  beginning  nor  end ;  but  this  was 
after  the  manner  of  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  and  Clara 
was  not  in  the  least  hurt  or  surprised.  "  My  i 
motiier  will  come  to  see  you  after  breakfast,"  i 
said  Clara,  as  she  was  taking  her  leave. 

"Oh,  goodness!  And  what  shall  I  say  to 
her?" 

"  You  will  have  to  say  very  little.  She  will 
speak  to  you." 

"  I  suppose  every  thing  belongs  to  her  now," 
said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"I  know  nothing  about  that.  I  never  do 
know  any  thing  of  mamma's  money-matters." 

"Of  course  she'll  turn  me  out.  I  do  not 
mind  a  bit  about  that — only  I  hope  she'll  let  me 
have  some  mourning."  Then  she  made  Clara 
promise  that  she  would  return  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, having  in  Clara's  ))resence  overcome  all  that 
feeling  of  dislike  which  she  had  expressed  to 
Conway  Dalrymple.  Mrs.  Broughton  was  gen- 
erally affectionate  to  those  who  were  near  to 
her.  Had  Musselboro  forced  himself  into  her 
])rcsence  she  would  have  become  quite  confi- 
dential with  him  before  he  left  her. 

"Mr.  Musselboro  will  be  here  directly,"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Siever,  as  she  was  starting  for  Mrs. 
Bioughton's  house.  "You  had  better  tell  him 
to  come  to  me  there  ;  or,  stop — perhaps  you  had 
better  keep  him  here  till  I  come  back.  Tell 
him  to  be  sure  and  wait  for  me." 

"  Very  well,  mamma.  I  suppose  he  can  wait 
below  ?" 

"  Why  should  he  wait  below  ?'"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Siever,  very  angrily. 

Clara  had  made  the  uncourteous  projiosition 
to  her  mother  with  the  expi-ess  intention  of  mak- 
ing it  understood  that  she  would  have  nothing 
to  say  to  him.  "He  can  come  uj)  stairs  if  he 
likes  it,"  said  Clara ;  "  and  I  will  go  up  to  my 
room." 

"If  you  fight  shy  of  him,  miss,  you  may  re- 
member this — that  you  will  fight  shy  of  me  at 
the  same  time." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


295 


"I  am  sorry  for  tliat,  maniroa,  for  I  shall 
certainly  fight  shy  of  Mr.  Miissulhoro.'' 

"You  can  do  as  you  ]ilease.  I  can't  force 
you,  and  I  slia'n't  try.  I5ut  I  can  make  your 
life  a  burden  to  you — and  I  will.  What's  the 
matter  with  the  man  that  he  isn't  good  enough 
for  you  ?  He's  as  good  as  any  of  your  own  ])co- 
ple  ever  was.  I  hate  your  new-fangled  airs — 
with  pictures  painted  on  the  sly,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I  hate  such  ways.  See  what  they  have 
brought  that  w'rctched  man  to,  and  the  jioor  fool 
his  wife.  If  you  go  and  marry  tliat  ])aintcr, 
some  of  these  days  you'll  be  very  much  like  what 
she  is.  Only  I  doubt  whether  he  has  got  cour- 
age enough  to  blow  his  brains  out."  With 
these  comfortable  words  the  old  woman  took 
herself  off,  leaving  Clara  to  entertain  her  lover 
as  best  slie  might  choose. 

Mr.  Musselboro  was  not  long  in  coming,  and, 
in  accordance  with  Mrs.  Van  Siever's  implied 
directions  to  her  daughter,  was  shown  up  into 
the  drawing-room.  Clara  gave  him  her  mo- 
ther's message  in  a  very  few  words.  "I  was 
expressly  told,  Sir,  to  ask  you  to  stop,  if  it  is 
not  inconvenient,  as  she  very  much  wants  to  see 
you."  Mr.  Musselboro  declared  that  of  course 
he  would  stop.  He  was  only  too  happy  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  remaining  in  such  delightful 
society.  As  Clara  answered  notliing  to  tliis,  he 
went  on  to  say  that  he  hoped  that  the  melan- 
choly occasion  of  Mrs.  Van  Siever's  visit  to  Mrs. 
Broughton  might  make  a  long  absence  necessary 
— he  did  not,  indeed,  care  how  long  it  might  be. 
He  had  recovered  now  from  that  paleness  and 
that  want  of  gloves  and  jewelry  which  had  be- 
fallen him  on  the  previous  day  immediately  aft- 
er the  sight  he  had  seen  in  the  City.  Clara 
made  no  answer  to  the  last  speech,  but,  putting 
some  things  together  in  her  work-basket,  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  room.  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  leave  me  ?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
intended  to  convey  much  of  love  and  something 
of  melancholy. 

"I  am  so-  shocked  by  what  has  happened,  Mr. 
Musselboro,  that  I  am  altogether  unfit  for  con- 
versation. I  was  with  poor  Mrs.  Broughton 
last  night,  and  I  shall  return  to  her  when  mam- 
ma comes  home." 

"It  is  sad,  certainly  ;  but  what  was  there  to 
be  expected  ?  If  you'd  only  seen  how  he  used 
to  go  on."  To  this  Clara  made  no  answer. 
"Don't  go  yet,"  said  he;  "there  is  something 
that  I  want  to  say  to  you.     There  is,  indeed." 

Clara  Van  Siever  was  a  young  woman  whosb 
presence  of  mind  rarely  deserted  her.  It  oc- 
curred to  her  now  that  she  must  undergo  on 
some  occasion  the  nuisance  of  a  direct  offer 
from  this  man,  and  that  she  could  have  no  bet- 
ter opportunity  of  answering  him  after  her  own 
fashion  than  the  present.  Her  mother  was  ab- 
sent, and  tlie  field  was  her  own.  And,  morc- 
OTcr,  it  was  a  point  in  her  fovor  that  the  tragedy 
which  had  so  lately  occurred,  and  to  which  she 
had  just  now  alluded,  would  give  her  a  fair  ex- 
cuse for  additional  severity.  At  such  a  moment 
no  man  could,  she  told  herself,  be  justified  in 


making  an  offer  of  liis  love,  and  therefore  she 
miglit  rebuke  liim  with  the  less  remorse.  I 
wonder  whether  the  last  words  wliieh  Conway 
Dalryniplc  had  s])okcn  to  her  stung  her  con- 
science as  she  thouglit  of  this !  She  had  now 
reached  the  door,  and  was  standing  close  to  it. 
As  Mr.  Musselboro  did  not  at  once  begin,  she 
encouraged  him.  "H  you  have  any  tiling 
special  to  tell  me,  of  course  I  will  hear  you," 
she  said. 

"  Miss  Clara,"  he  began,  rising  from  his  chair, 
and  coming  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  "I 
think  you  know  what  my  wishes  are."  Tiien 
he  put  his  hand  upon  his  heart.  "And  your 
respected  mother  is  the  same  way  of  thinking. 
It's  that  that  emboldens  me  to  be  so  sudden. 
Not  but  what  my  heart  has  been  yours,  and  yours 
only,  all  along,  before  the  old  lady  so  much  as 
mentioned  it."  Clara  would  give  him  no  assist- 
ance, not  even  the  aid  of  a  negative,  but  stood 
there  quite  passive,  with  her  hand  on  the  door. 
"  Since  I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  I 
have  always  said  to  myself,  'Augustus  ^Mussel- 
boio,  that  is  the  woman  for  you,  if  you  can  only 
win  her.'  But  then  there  was  so  much  against 
me — wasn't  there  ?"'  She  would  not  even  take 
advantage  of  this  by  assuring  him  that  there  cer- 
tainly always  had  been  much  against  him,  but 
allowed  him  to  go  on  till  he  should  run  out  all 
the  length  of  his  tether.  "I  mean,  of  course, 
in  the  way  of  money,"  lie  continued.  "I  hadn't 
much  that  I  could  call  my  own  when  your  re- 
spected mamma  first  allowed  me  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  you.  '  But  it's  different  now  ;  and 
I  tliink  I  may  say  that  I'm  all  right  in  that  re- 
spect. PoorBrougliton's  going  in  this  way  will 
make  it  a  deal  smoother  to  me ;  and  I  may  say 
that  I  and  your  mamma  will  be  all  in  all  to 
each  other  now  about  money."'  Then  he 
stopped. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean  by 
all  this,"  said  Clara. 

"I  mean  that  tliere  isn't  a  more  devoted  fel- 
low in  all  London  than  what  I  am  to  you." 
Then  he  was  about  to  go  down  on  one  knee,  but 
it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  not  be  conven- 
ient to  kneel  to  a  lady  who  would  stand  quite 
close  to  the  door.  "  One  and  one,  if  they're 
put  together  well,  will  often  make  more  than 
two,  and  so  they  shall  with  us, "  said  Musselboro, 
who  began  to  feel  that  it  might  be  expedient  to 
throw  a  little  spirit  into  his  words. 

"If  you  have  done,"  said  Clara,  "  jou  may 
as  well  hear  me  for  a  minute.  And  I  hope  you 
will  have  sense  to  understand  that  I  really  mean 
what  I  say." 

"I  hope  you  will  remember  what  are  your 
mamma's  wishes." 

"  Mamma's  wishes  have  no  influence  what- 
soever with  me  in  such  matters  as  this.  !Mam- 
ma's  arrangements  with  you  are  for  her  own 
convenience,  and  I  am  not  a  party  to  them.  I 
do  not  know  any  thing  about  mamma's  money, 
and  I  do  not  want  to  know.  But  under  no  ]ios- 
sible  circumstances  will  I  consent  to  become 
your  wife.     Kothing  that  mamma  could  say  or 


29G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


do  would  induce  nic  even  to  think  of  it.     I  hope 
you  will  be  num  enough  to  t:ike  tliis  for  an  an- 
swer, and  say  nothing  more  about  it." 
'•  But,  Miss  Clara — " 

"It's  no  good  your  Miss  Claraing  me,  Sir. 
What  I  have  said  you  may  be  sure  I  mean. 
Good-morning,  yir."  Then  she  opened  the 
door  and  left  him. 

"By  Jove!  slie  is  a  Tartar,"  said  Mnsselboro 
to  himself,  when  he  was  alone.  ''  Tliey're  b,oth 
Tartars,  but  the  younger  is  the  worse."  Then 
he  began  tt)  speculate  whether  P^ortuiie  was  not 
doing  tlie  best  for  him  in  so  arranging  that  he 
might  have  tlie  use  of  the  Tartar-mother's  mon- 
ey without  binding  himself  to  endure  for  life 
tlie  Tartar  qualities  of  the  daughter. 

It  had  been  understood  that  Clara  was  to  wait 
at  home  till  her  mother  should  return  before 
she  again  went  across  to  Mrs.  Broughton.  At 
about  eleven  Mrs.  Van  Sicver  came  in,  and  her 
daugliter  intercejited  her  at  the  dining-room 
door  before  she  had  made  her  way  up  stairs  to 
Mr.  Mnsselboro.  "  How  is  she,  mamma  ?"  said 
Clara,  with  something  of  hypocrisy  in  her  as- 
sumed interest  for  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"  iSlie  is  an  idiot,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Sicver, 
^'She  has  had  a  terrible  misfortune." 
"  That  is  no  reason  why  she  should  be  an  id- 
iot ;  and  slie  is  heartless  too.     She  never  cared 
a  bit  for  him — not  a  bit." 

"He  was  a  man  whom  it  was  impossible  to 
care  for  much.     I  will  go  to  her  now,  mamma." 
"Where  is  Mnsselboro?" 
"  He  is  up  stairs." 
"Well?" 

' '  iMamma,  that  is  quite  out  of  the  question. 
Quite.  I  would  not  marry  him  to  save  myself 
from  starving." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  starving  is  yet,  my 
dear.  Tell  me  the  truth  at  once.  Are  you  en- 
gaged to  that  painter?"  Clara  paused  a  mo- 
ment before  she  answered,  not  hesitating  as  to 
the  expediency  of  telling  her  mother  any  truth 
on  tlie  matter  in  question,  but  doubting  what 
the  truth  might  really  be.  Could  she  say  that 
she  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Dalrymple,  or  could  she 
say  that  she  was  not?  "If  you  tell  me  a  lie, 
miss,  I'll  have  you  put  out  of  the  house." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  tell  you  a  lie.  Mr. 
Dalrymple  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  I 
have  made  him  no  answer.  If  he  asks  me  again 
I  shall  accept  him." 

"Then  I  order  you  not  to  leave  this  house," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Siover. 

"  Surely  I  may  go  to  Mrs.  Broughton?" 
"I  order  you  not  to  leave  this  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Sicver  again  ;  and  thereupon  she 
stalked  out  of  the  dining-room  and  went  up 
stairs.  Clara  had  been  standing  with  her  bon- 
net on,  ready  dressed  to  go  out,  and  the  mo- 
ther made  no  attempt  to  send  the  daughter  up 
to  her  room.  That  she  did  not  expect  to  be 
obeyed  in  her  order  may  be  inferred  from  the 
first  words  which  she  sjjoke  to  Mr.  Musselboro. 
"  She  has  gone  off  to  that  man  now.  Yon  are 
no  good,  Musselboro,  at  this  kind  of  work." 


"You  see,  Mrs.  Van,  he  had  the  start  of  me 
so  much.  And  then  being  at  the  West  End, 
and  all  that,  gives  a  man  such  a  standing  with 
a  girl!" 

"Bother!"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  as  her  quick 
car  caught  the  sound  of  the  closing  hall-door. 
Clara  had  stood  a  minute  or  two  to  consider, 
and  then  had  resolved  that  she  would  disobey 
her  mother.  She  tried  to  excuse  her  own  con- 
duct to  her  own  satisfaction  as  she  went.  ' '  There 
jxre  some  things,"  she  said,  "which  even  a 
daughter  can  not  hear  from  her  mother.  If 
she  chooses  to  close  tlie  door  against  me,  sho 
n^ust  do  so." 

She  found  Mrs.  Broughton  still  in  "bed,  and 
could  not  but  agree  with  her  mother  that  the 
womnn  was  both  silly  and  heartless. 

"Your  mother  says  that  every  thing  must  be 
sold  up,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"At  any  rate  you  would  hardly  choose  to  re- 
main here,"  said  Clara. 

"But  I  hope  .she'll  let  me  have  my  own 
things.  A  great  many  of  them  are  altogether 
my  own.  I  know  there's  a  law  that  a  woman 
may  have  her  own  things,  even  though  her  hus- 
band has — done  what  poor  Dobbs  did.  And  I 
think  she  was  hard  upon  me  about  tlie  mourn- 
ing. They  never  do  mind  giving  credit  for 
such  things  as  that ;  and  though  there  is  a  bill 
due  to  Mrs.  Morell  now,  she  has  had  a  deal  of 
Dobbs's  money."  Clara  promised  her  that  she 
should  have  mourning  to  her  heart's  content. 
"I  will  see  to  that  myself,"  she  said. 

Presently  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
the  discreet  head-servant  beckoned  Clara  out  of 
the  room.  "You  are  not  going  away,"  said 
Mrs.  Broughton.  Clara  promised  her  that  she 
would  not  go  without  coming  back  again.  "  He 
will  be  here  soon,  I  suppose,  and  perhaps  you 
had  better  see  him ;  though,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  perhaps  you  had  better  not,  because  he  is 
so  much  cut  up  about  poor  Dobbs."  The  serv- 
ant had  come  up  to  tell  Clara  that  the  "he"  in 
question  was  at  the  present  moment  waiting  for 
her  below  stairs. 

The  first  words  which  passed  between  Dal- 
rymple and  Clara  had  reference  to  the  widow. 
He  told  her  what  he  had  learned  in  the  City 
— that  Broughton's  property  had  never  been 
great,  and  that  his  personal  liabilities  at  the 
time  of  his  death  were  supposed  to  be  small. 
But  he  had  fallen  lately  altogether  into  the 
hands  of  Musselboro,  who,  though  penniless 
himself  in  the  way  of  capital,  was  backed  by 
tlie  money  of  Mrs.  Van  Siever.  There  was  no 
'doubt  that  Broughton  had  destroyed  himself  in 
the  manner  told  by  Musselboro,  but  the  opinion 
in  the  City  was  that  he  had  done  so  rather 
through  the  effects  of  drink  than  because  of  his . 
losses.  As  to  the  widow,  Dalrymple  thought 
that  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  or  nominally,  perhaps, 
Musselboro,  might  be  induced  to  settle  an  an- 
nuity on  her  if  she  would  give  up  every  thing 
quietly.  "I  doubt  whether  your  mother  is  not 
responsible  for  every  thing  Broughton  owed 
when  be  died — for  every  thing,  that  is,  in  the 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


29T 


way  of  business  ;  and  if  so,  Mrs.  Broughton  will 
certainly  liave  a  claim  ui)on  the  estate."  It  oc- 
curred to  Dalrymple  once  or  twice  that  he  Avas 
talking  to  Clara  about  Mrs.  Van  Sievcr  as 
though  he  and  Clara  were  more  closely  bound 
together  than  were  Clara  and  her  mother;  but 
Clara  seemed  to  take  this  in  good  ]iart,  and  was 
as  solicitous  as  was  he  himself  in  the  matter  of 
Mrs.  Broughton's  interest. 

Then  the  discreet  head-servant  knocked  and 
told  them  that  Mrs.  Broughton  was  very  anxious 
to  see  Mr.  Dalrymjjle,  but  that  Miss  Van  Sievcr 
was  on  no  account  to  go  away.  She  was  up, 
and  in  her  dressing-gown,  and  had  gone  into 
the  sitting-room.  "  I  will  come  directly,"  said 
Dalrymjile,  and  the  discreet  head-servant  re- 
tired. 

"  Clara,"  said  Conway,  "  I  do  not  know  when 
I  may  have  another  chance  of  asking  for  an  an- 
swer to  my  question.  You  heard  my  ques- 
tion ?■' 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it." 

"  And  will  you  answer  it?" 

"If  you  wish  it,  I  will." 

"Of  course  I  wish  it.  You  understood  what 
I  said  upon  the  door-step  yesterday?" 

"I  don't  think  much  of  that;  men  say  those 
things  so  often.  What  you  said  before  was  se- 
rious, I  suppose  ?" 

,  "Serious !  Heavens  !  do  you  think  that  I  am 
joking  ?" 

' '  Mamma  wants  me  to  marry  Mr.  Mussel-  ■ 
toro. " 

' '  He  is  a  vulgar  brute.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible." 

"  It  is  impossible ;  but  mamma  is  very  obsti- 
nate. I  have  no  fortune  of  my  own — not  a 
shilling.  She  told  me  to-day  that  she  would 
turn  me  into  the  street.  She  forbade  me  to 
come  here,  thinking  I  should  meet  you ;  but  I 
came  because  I  had  promised  Mrs.  Broughton. 
I  am  sure  that  she  will  never  give  me  one  shill- 
ing." 

Dalrymple  paused  for  a  moment.  It  was 
certainly  true  that  he  had  regarded  Clara  Van 
Siever  as  an  heiress,  and  had  at  first  been  at- 
tracted to  her  because  he  thought  it  expedient 
to  marry  an  heiress.  But  there  had  since  come 
something  beyond  that,  and  there  -was  perhaps 
less  of  regret  than  most  men  would  have  felt  as 
he  gave  up  his  golden  hopes.  He  took  her  into/ 
his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  called  her  his  own.; 
"Now  we  understand  each  other,"  he  said. 

"If  you  wish  it  to  be  so." 

"I  do  wish  it." 

"And  I  shall  tell  my  mother  to-day  that  I 
am  engaged  to  you — unless  she  refuses  to  see 
me.  Go  to  Mrs.  Broughton  now.  I  feel  that 
we  are  almost  cruel  to  be  thinking  of  ourselves 
in  this  house  at  such  a  time."  Upon  this  Dal- 
rymple went,  and  Clara  Van  Siever  was  left  to 
her  reflections.  She  had  never  before  had  a 
lover.  She  had  never  had  even  a  friend  whom 
she  loved  and  trusted.  Her  life  had  been  passed 
at  school  till  she  was  nearly  twenty,  and  since 
then  she  had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  accom- 
T 


modate  herself  and  her  feelings  to  her  mother. 
Now  she  was  about  to  throw  herself  into  the  ab» 
solute  power  of  a  man  who  was  nearly  a  stran- 
ger to  her !  But  .she  did  love  him,  as  she  had 
never  loved  any  one  else ;  and  then,  qn  the  other 
side,  there  was  Mr.  Musselboro  ! 

Dalrymple  was  up  stairs  for  an  hour,  and 
Clara  did  not  see  him  again  before  he  left  the 
house.  It  was  clear  to  lier,  from  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton's first  words,  that  Conway  had  told  her  what 
had  passed.  "  Of  course  I  shall  never  see  any 
thing  more  of  either  of  you  now?"  said  Mrs. 
Broughton. 

"I  should  say  that  probably  you  will  see  a 
great  deal  of  us  both." 

"  There  are  some  people,"  said  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton, "who  can  do  well  fur  their  friends,  but  can 
never  do  well  for  themselves.  I  am  one  of  them. 
I  saw  at  once  how  great  a  thing  it  would  be  for 
both  of  you  to  bring  you  two  together — especially 
for  you,  Clara ;  and  therefore  I  did  it.  I  may 
say  that  I  never  had  it  out  of  my  mind  for  months 
past.  Poor  Dobbs  misunderstood  what  I  was 
doing.  God  knows  how  far  that  may  have 
brought  about  what  has  happened." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Broughton !" 

"  Of  course  he  could  not  be  blind  to  one  thing 
— nor  was  I.  I  mention  it  now  because  it  is 
right,  but  I  shall  never,  never  allude  to  it  again. 
Of  course  he  saw,  and  I  saw,  that  Conway — was 
attached  to  me.  Poor  Conway  meant  no  harm. 
I  was  aware  of  that.  But  there  was  the  terri- 
ble fact.  I  knew  at  once  that  the  only  cure  for 
him  was  a  marriage  with  some  girl  that  he  could 
respect.  Admiring  you  as  I  do,  I  immediately 
resolved  on  bringing  you  two  together.  My 
dear,  I  have  been  successful,  and  I  heartily  trust 
that  you  may  be  happier  than  Maria  Broughton." 

Miss  Van  Siever  knew  the  woman,  understood 
all  the  facts,  and  pitying  the  condition  of  the 
wretched  creature,  bore  all  this  without  a  word 
of  rebuke.  She  scorned  to  put  out  her  strength 
against  one  who  was  in  truth  so  weak. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

REQUIESOAT    IK    PACK. 

Things  were  very  gloomy  at  the  palace.  It 
has  been  already  said  that  for  many  days  after 
Dr.  Tempest's  visit  to  Barchester  the  intercourse 
between  the  bishop  and  Mrs.  Proudie  had  not 
been  of  a  pleasant  nature.  He  had  become  so 
silent,  so  sullen,  and  so  solitary  in  his  ways  that 
even  her  courage  had  been  almost  cowed,  and 
for  a  while  she  had  condescended  to  use  gentler 
measures,  with  the  hope  that  she  might  thus 
bring  her  lord  round  to  his  usual  state  of  active 
submission ;  or  perhaps,  if  we  strive  to  do  her 
full  justice,  we  may  say  of  her  that  her  effort  was 
made  conscientiously,  with  the  idea  of  inducing 
him  to  do  his  duty  with  proper  activity.  For 
she  was  a  woman  not  without  a  conscience,  and 
by  no  means  indifferent  to  the  real  service  which 
her  husband,  as  bishop  of  the  diocese,  was  bound 


2D8 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


to  render  to  the  affairs  of  the  Church  around 
her.  or  her  own  struj^f^lcs  after  j)ersonal  do- 
minion she  was  herself  unconscious;  and  no 
doubt  they  pave  her,  when  recoRuized  and  ac- 
knowledged by  herself,  many  stabs  to  her  inner 
self,  of  which  no  single  being  in  the  world  knew 
any  thing.  And  now,  as  after  a  while  she  fail- 
ed in  producing  any  amelioration  in  the  bish- 
op's mood,  her  temjicr  also  gave  way,  and  things 
were  becoming  very  gloomy  and  very  uni)lcasaut. 

The  bishop  and  his  wife  were  at  present  alone 
in  the  jialace.  Their  married  daughter  and  her 
liusband  had  left  tliem,  and  their  immarried 
daughter  was  also  away.  How  far  the  bishoi)'s 
mood  may  have  jiroduced  this  solitude  in  the 
vast  house  I  will  not  say.  Probably  Mrs.  Prou- 
die's  state  of  mind  may  have  i)revented  her  from 
having  other  guests  in  the  place  of  those  who 
were  gone.  Slic  felt  herself  to  be  almost  dis- 
graced in  the  eyes  of  all  those  around  her  by 
her  husband's  long  absence  from  the  common 
rooms  of  the  house  and  by  his  dogged  silence  at 
meals.  It  was  better,  she  thought,  that  they 
two  should  be  alone  in  the  palace. 

Her  own  efforts  to  bring  him  back  to  some- 
thing like  life,  to  some  activity  of  mind  if  not 
of  body,  were  made  constantly ;  and  when  slie 
failed,  as  she  did  fail  day  after  day,  she  would 
go  slowly  to  her  own  room,  and  lock  her  door, 
and  look  back  in  her  solitude  at  all  the  days  of 
lier  life.  She  had  agonies  in  these  minutes  of 
which  no  one  near  her  knew  any  thing.  She 
would  seize  with  her  arm  the  part  of  the  bed 
near  which  she  would  stand,  and  hold  by  it, 
grasping  it  as  though  she  were  afraid  to  fall ; 
and  then,  when  it  was  at  the  worst  with  her,  she 
would  go  to  her  closet — a  closet  that  no  eyes 
ever  saw  unlocked  but  her  own — and  fill  for  her- 
self and  swallow  some  draught ;  and  then  she 
would  sit  down  with  the  Bible  before  her,  and 
read  it  sedulously.  She  spent  hours  every  day 
with  her  Bible  before  her,  repeating  to  herself 
whole  chapters,  which  she  almost  knew  by  heart. 

It  can  not  be  said  that  she  was  a  bad  woman, 
though  she  had  in  her  time  done  an  indescriba- 
ble amount  of  evil.  She  had  endeavored  to  do 
good,  failing  partly  by  ignorance  and  partly 
from  tlie  effects  of  an  unbridled,  ambitious  tem- 
per. And  now,  even  amidst  her  keenest  suf- 
ferings, her  ambition  was  by  no  means  dead. 
She  still  longed  to  rule  the  diocese  by  means  of 
her  husband— but  was  made  to  pause  and  hesi- 
tate by  the  unwonted  mood  that  had  fallen  upon 
him.  Before  this,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
and  on  one  very  memorable  occasion,  he  had 
endeavored  to  combat  her.  Ho  had  fought 
with  her,  striving  to  put  her  down.  He  had 
failed,  and  given  up  the  hope  of  any  escape  for 
himself  in  that  direction.  On  those  occasions 
lier  courage  had  never  quailed  for  a  moment. 
While  he  openly  struggled  to  be  master  she 
could  openly  struggle  to  be  mistress — and  could 
enjoy  the  struggle.  But  nothing  like  this  mood- 
iness had  ever  come  upon  him  before. 

She  had  yielded  to  it  fur  many  days,  striving 
to  coax  him  by  little  softnesses  of  which  she  her- 


self had  been  ashamed  as  she  practiced  them. 
They  had  served  her  nothing,  and  at  last  slic 
determined  that  something  else  must  be  done. 
If  only  for  his  sake,  to  keep  some  life  in  him, 
something  else  must  be  done.  Were  he  to  con- 
tinue as  he  was  now  he  must  give  up  his  dio- 
cese, or,  at  any  rate,  declare  himself  too  ill  to 
keep  the  working  of  it  in  his  own  hands.  How 
she  hated  Mr.  Crawley  for  all  the  sorrow  that 
he  had  brought  upon  her  and  her  house ! 

And  it  was  still  the  affair  of  Mr.  Crawley  which 
urged  heron  to  furtlier  action.  When  the  bish- 
op received  Mr.  Crawley's  letter  he  said  nothing 
of  it  to  her  ;  but  he  handed  it  over  to  his  chap- 
lain. The  chaplain,  fearing  to  act  upon  it 
himself,  handed  it  to  Mr.  Tliumblc,  whom 
he  knew  to  be  one  of  the  bishop's  conmiis- 
sion,  and  Mr.  Thumble,  equally  fearing  re- 
sponsibility in  the  present  state  of  affairs  at  the 
palace,  found  himself  obliged  to  consult  Mrs. 
Broudic.  IMrs.  Proudie  had  no  doubt  as  to 
what  should  be  done.  The  man  had  abdicated 
his  living,  and  of  course  some  prbvision  must 
be  made  for  the  services.  She  would  again 
make  an  attempt  upon  her  husband,  and  there- 
fore she  went  into  his  room,  holding  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's letter  in  her  hand. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "here  is  Mr.  Crawley's 
letter.     I  suppose  you  have  read  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  bishop;    "I  have  read  it." 

"And  what  will  you  do  about  it?  Some- 
thing must  be  done." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  he.  He  did  not  even 
look  at  her  as  he  spoke.  He  had  not  turned 
his  eyes  upon  her  since  she  liad  entered  the  room. 

"But,  bishop,  it  is  a  letter  that  requires  to 
be  acted  upon  at  once.  We  can  not  doubt  that 
the  man  is  doing  right  at  last.  He  is  submit- 
ting himself  where  his  submission  is  due;  but 
his  submission  will  be  of  no  avail  unless  you 
take  some  action  upon  his  letter.  Do  you  not* 
think  that  Mr.  Thumble  had  better  go  over  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  think  Mr.  Thumble  had 
better  stay  where  he  is,"  said  the  irritated  bishop. 

"What,  then,  would  you  wish  to  have  done  ?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  he. 

"But,  bishop,  that  is  nonsense,"  said  Mrs. 
Pi-oudie,  adding  something  of  severity  to  the 
tone  of  her  voice. 

"No,  it  isn't  nonsense,"  said  he.  Still  he 
did  not  look  at  her,  nor  had  he  done  so  for  a 
moment  since  she  had  entered  the  room.  Mrs. 
Proudie  could  not  bear  this,  and  as  her  anger 
became  strong  within  her  breast  she  told  her- 
self that  she  would  be  wrong  to  bear  it.  Slie 
had  tried  what  gentleness  would  do,  and  she 
had  failed.  It  was  now  imperatively  necessary 
that  she  should  resort  to  sterner  measures.  She 
must  make  him  understand  that  he  must  give 
her  authority  to  send  Mr.  Thumble  to  Hoggle- 
stock. 

"  Why  do  you  not  turn  round  and  speak  to 
me  properly  ?"  she  said. 

"I  do  not  want  to  speak  to  you  at  all,"  the 
bishop  answered. 

This  was  very  bad — almost  any  thing  would 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


299 


be  better  than  this.  lie  was  sitting  now  over 
tlic  fire,  v.ith  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands.  She  had  gone  round 
tlie  room  so  as  to  face  liitn,  and  was  now  stand- 
ing ahnost  over  liim,  but  still  she  conld  not  see 
his  countenance.  "This  will  not  do  at  all," 
she  said.  "  My  dear,  do  you  know  that  you, 
are  forgetting  yourself  altogether  ?"  / 

"  I  wish  I  could  forget  myself."  ' 

"  That  might  be  all  very  well  if  yon  were  in 
a  position  in  which  yon  owed  no  service  to  any 
one ;  or,  rather,  it  would  not  be  well  then,  but 
the  evil  would  not  be  so  manifest.  You  can 
not  do  your  duty  in  the  diocese  if  yon  continue 
to  sit  there  doing  nothing,  with  your  head  upon 
your  hands.  Why  do  you  not  rally,  and  get  to 
your  work  like  a  man  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  away  and  leave  me," 
he  said. 

"No,  bishop,  I  will  not  go  away  and  leave 
you.  You  have  brought  yourself  to  such  a  con- 
dition that  it  is  my  duty  as  your  wife  to  stay  by 
you ;  and  if  you  neglect  your  duty,  I  will  not 
neglect  mine." 

"It  was  you  that  brought  me  to  it." 
"No,  Sir,  that  is  not  true.     I  did  not  bring 
you  to  it." 

"It  is  the  truth."  And  now  he  got  up  and 
looked  at  her.  For  a  moment  he  stood  upon 
his  legs,  and  then  again  he  sat  down  with  his 
face  turned  toward  her.  "It  is  the  truth.  You 
have  brought  on  me  such  disgrace  that  I  can  not 
hold  up  my  head.  You  have  ruined  me.  I  wish  I 
were  dead  ;  and  it  is  all  through  you  that  I  am 
driven  to  wish  it." 

Of  all  that  she  had  suffered  in  her  life  this 
was  the  worst.  She  clasped  both  her  hands  ta 
her  side  as  she  listened  to  him,  and  for  a  min- 
ute or  two  she  made  no  rejjly.  When  he  ceased 
from  speaking  he  again  ])ut  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  again  buried  his  foce  in  his  hands. 
What  had  she  better  do,  or  how  was  it  expedient 
that  she  should  treat  him  ?  At  this  crisis  the 
ivhole  thing  was  so  important  to  her  that  she 
would  have  postponed  her  own  ambition  and 
would  have  curbed  her  temper  had  she  thought 
that  by  doing  so  she  might  in  any  degree  have 
benefited  him.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  not  rouse  him  by  conciliation.  Neither 
could  she  leave  him  as  he  was.  Something 
prust  be  done.  "Bishop,"  she  said,  "the 
words  that  you  speak  are  sinful,  very  sinful." 
"You  have  made  them  sinful,"  he  replied. 
"I  will  not  hear  that  from  you.  I  will  not 
indeed.  I  have  endeavored  to  do  my  duty  by 
you,  and  I  do  not  deserve  it.  I  am  endeavoring 
to  do  my  duty  now,  and  you  must  know  that  it 
would  ill  become  me  to  remain  quiescent  while 
you  are  in  such  a  state.  The  world  around  you 
is  observing  you,  and  knows  that  you  are  not 
doing  your  work.  All  I  want  of  you  is  that  you 
should  arouse  yourself,  and  go  to  your  work." 
"  I  could  do  my  work  very  well,"  he  said,  "  if 
you  were  not  here." 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  wish  that  I  were  dead," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie.     To  this  he  made  no  reply, 


nor  did  he  stir  himself.  How  could  flesh  and 
blood  bear  tliis — female  flesh  and  blood — Mrs. 
Troudie's  flesh  and  blood?  Now,  at  last,  her 
temper  once  more  got  the  better  of  her  judg- 
ment, probably  much  to  her  immediate  satisfac- 
tion, and  she  spoke  out.  "I'll  tell  you  what  it 
is,  my  lord  ;  if  you  are  imbecile,  I  must  be  act- 
ive. It  is  very  sad  that  I  should  have  to  as- 
sume your  authority — " 

"I  will  not  allow  you  to  assume  my  au- 
thority." 

"I  must  do  so,  or  must  else  obtain  a  medi- 
cal certificate  as  to  your  incapacity,  and  beg 
that  some  neighboring  bishop  may  administer 
the  diocese.  Things  shall  not  go  on  as  they 
arc  now.  I,  at  any  rate,  will  do  my  duty.  I 
shall  tell  Mr.  Thumble  that  he  must  go  over  to 
Hogglestock,  and  arrange  for  the  duties  of  the 
parish." 

"I  desire  that  you  will  do  no  sueh  thing," 
said  the  bishop,  now  again  looking  up  at  her. 

"You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie,  and  then  she  left  the  room. 

He  did  not  even  yet  suppose  that  she  would 
go  about  this  work  at  once.  The  condition  of 
his  mind  was  in  truth  bad,  and  was  becoming 
worse,  probably,  from  day  to  day ;  but  still  he 
did  make  his  calculations  about  things,  and  now 
reflected  that  it  would  be  suflicient  if  he  spoke 
to  his  chaplain  to-morrow  about  Mr.  Crawley's 
letter.  Since  the  terrible  scene  that  Dr.  Tem- 
pest had  witnessed  he  had  never  been  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  as  to  what  great  step  he  would 
take,  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  some 
great  step  was  necessary.  There  were  moments 
in  Avhich  he  thought  that  he  would  resign  his 
bishopric.  For  such  resignation,  without  ac- 
knowledged incompetence  on  the  score  of  in- 
firmity, the  precedents  wei'e  very  few ;  but 
even  if  there  were  no  precedents,  it  would  be 
better  to  do  that  than  to  remain  where  he  was. 
Of  course  there  would  be  disgrace.  But  then 
it  \vould  be  disgrace  from  which  he  could  hide 
himself.  Now  there  was  equal  disgrace ;  and 
he  could  not  hide  himself.  And  then  such  a, 
measure  as  that  would  bring  punishment  where 
punishment  was  due.  It  would  bring  his  wife 
to  the  ground — her  who  had  brought  him  to  the 
ground.  The  suffering  should  not  be  all  his 
own.  When  she  found  that  her  income,  and 
her  palace,  and  her  position  were  all  gone,  then 
perhaps  she  might  repent  the  evil  that  she  had 
done  him.  Now,  when  he  was  left  alone,  his 
mind  went  back  to  this,  and  he  did  not  think 
of  taking  immediate  measures — measures  on 
that  very  day — to  prevent  the  action  of  Mr. 
Thumble. 

But  Mrs.  Proudie  did  take  immediate  steps. 
Mr.  Thumble  was  at  this  moment  in  the  palace 
waiting  for  instructions.  It  was  he  who  had 
brought  Mr.  Crawley's  letter  to  Mrs.  Proudie, 
and  she  now  returned  to  him  with  that  letter  in 
her  hand.  The  reader  will  know  what  was  the 
result.  Mr.  Thumble  was  sent  off  to  Hoggle- 
stock at  once  on  the  bishop's  old  cob,  and — as 
will  be  remembered — fell  into  trouble  on  the 


300 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


road.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  entered  the 
pahice  yard,  having  led  tl>e  cob  h_v  the  bridle 
the  whole  way  home  from  Ilog^lestock. 

Some  hour  or  two  before  Mr.  Tlmmble's  re- 
turn Mrs.  I'roudic  returned  to  her  husband, 
thinking  it  better  to  let  him  know  what  she  had 
done.  She  resolved  to  be  very  firm  with  him, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  determined  not  to  use 
harsh  language  if  it  could  be  avoided.  "My 
dear,"  she  said.  "  I  have  arranged  with  Mr. 
Thumble."  She  found  him  on  this  occasion 
silting  at  his  desk  with  papers  before  him,  with 
a  pen  in  his  hand  ;  and  she  could  see  at  a  glance 
that  nothing  had  been  written  on  the  j)apcr. 
What  would  she  have  tliought  had  she  known 
that  when  he  placed  the  sheet  before  him  he 
was  proposing  to  consult  the  archbishoj)  as  to 
the  propriety  of  his  resignation !  lie  had  not, 
however,  progressed  so  far  as  to  write  even  the 
date  of  his  letter. 

"You  have  done  what?"  said  he,  throwing 
down  the  pen. 

"I  have  arranged  with  Mr.  Thumble  as  to 
going  out  to  Hogglestock,"  said  she,  firmly. 
"  Indeed  he  has  gone  already."  Then  the  bish- 
op jumped  up  from  his  seat,  and  i-ang  the  bell 
with  violence.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  I  am  going  to  depart  from  here,"  said  he. 
"I  will  not  stay  here  to  be  the  mark  of  scorn 
for  all  men's  fingers.     I  will  resign  the  diocese." 

"  You  can  not  do  that,"  said  his  wife. 

"I  can  try,  at  any  rate,"  said  he.  Then  the 
servant  entered.  "John,"  said  he,  addressing 
-the  man,  "  let  Mr.  Thumble  know  the  moment 
ho  returns  to  the  palace  that  I  wish  to  see  him 
here.  Perhaps  he  may  not  come  to  the  palace. 
In  that  ease  let  word  be  sent  to  his  house." 

Mrs.  Proudie  allowed  the  man  to  go  before 
she  addressed  her  husband  again.  "What  do 
you  mean  to  say  to  Mr.  Thumble  when  you  see 
him?" 

"That  is  nothing  to  you." 

She  came  up  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  spoke  to  him  very  gently. 
"Tom,"  she  said,  "is  that  the  way  in  which 
you  speak  to  your  wife  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is.  You  have  driven  me  to  it.  Why 
have  you  taken  upon  yourself  to  send  that  man 
to  Hogglestock?" 

"Because  it  was  right  to  do  so.  I  came  to 
you  for  instructions,  and  you  would  give  none." 

"I  should  have  given  what  instructions  I 
pleased  in  proper  time.  Thumble  shall  not  go 
to  Hogglestock  next  Sunday." 

"Who  shall  go,  then?" 

"Never  mind.  Nobody.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter to  you.  If  you  will  leave  me  now  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  you.  There  will  be  an  end  of  all 
this  very  soon — very  soon." 

Mrs.  Proudie  after  this  stood  for  a  while 
thinking  what  she  would  say ;  but  she  left  the 
room  without  uttering  another  word.  As  she 
looked  at  him  a  hundred  different  thoughts 
came  into  her  mind.  She  had  loved  him  dear- 
ly, and  she  loved  him  still ;  but  she  knew  now 


— at  this  moment  felt  absolutely  sure — that  by 
him  siie  was  hated  I  In  sjjite  of  all  her  rough- 
ness and  temper,  Mrs.  I'roudic  was  in  this  like 
other  women — that  she  would  fain  have  been 
loved  had  it  been  j)ossiblc.  She  had  always 
meant  to  serve  him.  She  was  conscious  of 
that ;  conscious  also  in  a  way  that,  although 
she  had  been  industrious,  although  she  had  been 
fai'thful,  although  she  was  clever,  yet  slie  had 
failed.  At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  knew 
that  she  had  been  a  bad  wife.  And  yet  she 
had  meant  to  be  a  pattern  wife !  She  liad 
meant  to  be  a  good  Christian;  but  she  had  so 
exercised  her  Christianity  that  not  a  soul  in  the 
world  loved  her,  or  would  endure  her  presence 
if  it  could  be  avoided !  She  had  sufficient  in- 
sight to  the  niiuds  and  feelings  of  those  around 
her  to  be  aware  of  this.  And  now  her  husband 
had  told  her  that  her  tyranny  to  him  was  so 
overbearing  that  he  must  throw  uj)  his  great  po- 
sition, and  retire  to  an  obscurity  that  would  be 
exceptionally  disgraceful  to  them  both,  because 
he  could  no  longer  endure  the  public  disgrace 
which  her  conduct  brought  upon  him  in  his 
high  place  before  the  world !  Her  heart  was 
too  full  for  speech  ;  and  she  left  him,  very  quiet- 
ly closing  the  door  behind  her. 

She  was  preparing  to  go  up  to  her  chamber, 
with  her  hand  on  the  balusters  and  with  her 
foot  on  the  stairs,  when  she  saw  the  servant  who 
had  answered  tlie  bishojt's  bell.  "John,"  she 
said,  "when  I\Ir.  Thumble  comes  to  the  palace, 
let  me  see  him  before  he  goes  to  my  lord." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  John,  who  well  under- 
stood the  nature  of  these  quarrels  between  his 
•master  and  his  mistress.  But  the  commands 
of  the  mistress  were  still  paramount  among  the 
servants,  and  John  proceeded  on  his  mission 
with  the  view  of  accomplishing  Mrs.  Proudie's 
behests.  Then  Mrs.  Proudie  went  up  stairs  to 
her  chamber,  and  locked  her  door. 

Mr.  Thumble  returned  to  Barchester  that 
day,  leading  the  broken  -  down  cob ;  and  a 
dreadful  walk  he  had.  He  was  not  good  at ' 
walking,  and  befoi'e  he  came  near  Barchester 
had  come  to  entertain  a  violent  hatred  for  the 
beast  he  was  leading.  The  leading  of  a  horse 
that  is  tired,  or  in  pain,  or  lame,  or  even  stiff 
in  his  limbs,  is  not  pleasant  work.  The  brute 
will  not  accommodate  his  paces  to  the  man,  and 
will  contrive  to  make  his  head  very  heavy  on 
the  bridle.  And  he  will  not  walk  on  the  part 
of  the  road  which  the  man  intends  for  him,  but 
Avill  lean  against  the  man,  and  will  make  him- 
self altogether  very  disagreeable.  It  may  be 
understood,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thumble  was 
not  in  a  good  humor  when  he  entered  the  palace 
yard.  Nor  was  he  altogether  quiet  in  liis  mind 
as  to  the  injury  which  he  had  done  to  the  ani- 
mal. "It  was  the  brute's  fault,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble.  "It  comes  generally  of  not  knowing 
how  to  ride  'em,"  said  the  groom.  For  Mr. 
Thumble,  though  he  often  had  a  horse  out  of 
the  episcopal  stables,  was  not  ready  with  his 
shillings  to  the  man  who  waited  upon  him  with 
the  steed. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


301 


He  had  not,  however,  come  to  any  satisfac- 
tory understanding  respecting  the  broken  knees 
■when  the  footman  from  the  palace  told  him  he 
was  wanted.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Thumble 
pleaded  that  he  was  nearly  dead  with  fatigue, 
that  he  had  walked  all  the  way  from  Iloggle- 
stock  and  must  go  home  to  change  his  clothes. 
John  was  peremptory  with  him,  insisting  that 
he  must  wait  first  upon  Mrs.  Proudie  and  then 
upon  the  bishop.  Mr.  Thumble  might  perhaps 
liave  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  latter  command, 
but  the  former  was  one  which  he  ftdt  himself 
bound  to  obey.  So  he  entered  the  palace,  rath- 
er cross,  very  much  soiled  as  to  his  outer  man ; 
and  in  this  condition  went  up  a  certain  small 
staircase  which  was  familiar  to  him,  to  a  small 
parlor  which  adjoined  Mrs.  Proudie's  room,  and 
there  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  lady.  That  he 
should  be  required  to  wait  some  quarter  of  an 
liour  was  not  surprising  to  him ;  but  when  half 
an  hour  was  gone,  and  he  remembered  himself 
of  his  own  wife  at  home,  and  of  the  dinner 
which  he  had  not  yet  eaten,  he  ventured  to^ 
ring  the  bell.  Mrs.  Proudie's  own  maid,  MisJ 
Draper  by  name,  came  to  him  and  said  that  she 
had  knocked  twice  at  Mrs.  Proudie's  door  and 
would  knock  again.  Two  minutes  after  that 
.she  returned,  running  into  the  room  with  her 
arms  extended,  and  exclaiming,  "Oh  Heavens, 
Sir;  mistress  is  dead!"  Mr.  Thumble,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  was  about,  followed  the  woy 
man  into  the  bedroom,  and  there  he  found  himr 
self  standing  awestruck  before  the  corpse  of  her 
who  had  so  lately  been  the  presiding  spirit  of 
the  palace. 

The  body  was  still  resting  on  its  legs,  leaning 
against  the  end  of  the  side  of  the  bed,  while  one 
of  the  arms  was  close  clasped  round  the  bed-post. 
The  mouth  was  rigidly  close,  but  the  eyes  were 
open  as  though  staring  at  him.  Nevertheless 
there  could  be  no  doubt  from  the  first  glance 
that  the  woman  was  dead.  He  went  up  close 
to  it,  but  did  not  dare  to  touch  it.  There  was 
no  one  as  yet  there  but  he  and  Mrs.  Draper — no 
one  else  knew  what  had  happened. 

"It's  her  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Draper. 

"Did  she  suffer  from  heart  complaint?"  he 
asked. 

"We  suspected  it.  Sir,  though  nobody  knew 
it.     She  was  very  shy  of  talking  about  herself." 

"We  must  send  for  the  doctor  at  once,"  said 
Mr.  Thumble.  "We  had  better  touch  nothing 
till  he  is  here."  Then  they  retreated  and  the 
door  was  locked. 

In  ten  minutes  every  body  in  the  house  knew 
it  except  the  bishop ;  and  in  twenty  minutes  the 
nearest  apothecary  with  his  assistant  were  ill 
the  room,  and  the  body  had  been  properly  laid 
upon  the  bed.  Even  then  the  husband  had  not 
been  told — did  not  know  either  his  relief  or  his 
loss.  It  was  now  past  seven,  which  was  the 
usual  hour  for  dinner  at  the  palace,  and  it  was 
probable  that  he  would  come  out  of  his  room 
among  the  servants  if  he  were  not  summoned. 
When  it  was  proposed  to  Mr.  Thumble  that  he 
should  go  in  to  him  and  tell  him,  he  positively 


declined,  saying  that  the  sight  which  he  had 
just  seen  and  the  exertions  of  the  day  together, 
liad  so  imncrved  him  that  he  had  not  physical 
strength  for  the  task.  The  apothecary,  who  had 
been  summoned  in  a  hurry,  had  csca])cd,  prob- 
ably being  equally  unwilling  to  be  the  bearer  of 
such  a  communication.  The  duty  therefore  fell 
to  Mrs.  Draper,  and  under  the  pressing  instance 
of  the  other  servants  she  descended  to  her  mas- 
ter's room.  Had  it  not  been  that  the  hour  of 
dinner  had  come,  so  that  the  bishop  could  not 
have  been  left  much  longer  to  himself,  the  evil 
time  would  have  been  still  postponed. 

She  went  very  slowly  along  the  passage,  and 
was  just  going  to  pause  ere  she  reached  the 
room,  when  the  door  was  opened  and  the  bishop 
stood  close  before  her.  It  was  easy  to  be  seen 
that  he  was  cross.  His  hands  and  face  were 
unwashed  and  his  face  was  haggard.  In  these 
days  he  would  not  even  go  through  the  ceremony 
of  dressing  himself  before  dinner.  "Mrs.  Dra- 
per," he  said,  "why  don't  they  tell  me  that  din- 
ner is  ready?  Are  they  going  to  give  me  any 
dinner  ?"  She  stood  a  moment  witliout  answer- 
ing him,  while  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  said  he.  "Has  your 
mistress  sent  you  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  laws!"  said  Mrs.  Draper — and  she  put 
out  her  hands  to  support  him  if  such  support 
should  be  necessary. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded,  an- 
grily. 

"Oh,  my  lord;  bear  it  like  a  Christian. 
Mistress  isn't  no  more."  He  leaned  back 
against  the  door-post,  and  she  took  hold  of  him 
by  the  arm.  "  It  was  the  heart,  my  lord.  Dr. 
Filgrave  hisself  has  not  been  yet;  but  that's 
what  it  was."  The  bishop  did  not  say  a  word, 
but  walked  back  to  his  chair  before  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  LXVIL 

IN    MEMORIAM. 

The  bishop,  wheil  he  had  heard  the  tidings 
of  his  wife's  death,  walked  back  to  his  seat  over 
the  fire,  and  Mrs.  Draper,  the  housekeeper,  came 
and  stood  over  him  without  speaking.  Thus 
she  stood  for  ten  minutes,  looking  down  at  him 
and  listening.  But  there  was  no  sound  ;  not  a 
word,  nor  a  moan,  nor  a  sob.  It  was  as  though 
he  also  were  dead,  but  that  a  slight  irregular 
movement  of  his  fingers  on  the  top  of  his  bald 
head  told  her  that  his  mind  and  body  were  still 
active.  "My  lord,"  she  said,  at  last,  "would 
you  wish  to  see  the  doctor  when  he  comes?" 
She  spoke  very  low,  and  he  did  not  answer  her. 
Then,  after  another  minute  of  silence,  she  asked 
the  same  question  again. 

"What  doctor?"  he  said. 

"  Dr.  Filgrave.  We  sent  for  him.  Perhaps 
he  is  here  now.  Shall  I  go  and  see,  my  lord?!' 
Mrs.  Draper  found  that  her  position  there  was 
weary,  and  she  wished  to  escape.  Any  thing 
on  his  behalf  requiring  trouble  or  work  she  would 


JOS 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


have  done  willint;ly ;  but  she  could  not  stand 
there  forever  watcliing  the  motion  of  liis  (in{;ers. 
"I  suppose  I  must  see  liim,"  said  the  bisliop. 
Mrs.  Draper  took  this  as  an  order  fur  her  dt-jiart- 
ure,  and  crei)t  silently  out  of  tlie  room,  closinj^ 
tlic  door  beliind  her  witii  tlie  long  jirotraeted 
elaborate  clitk  wliich  is  always  i)roduccd  by  an 
attempt  at  silence  on  such  occasions.  He  did 
not  care  for  noise  or  for  silence.  Had  she 
slammed  tlic  door  he  would  not  have  regarded 
it.  A  wonderful  silence  had  come  u\Km  him 
which  for  the  time  almost  crushed  him.  He 
would  never  hear  tliat  well-known  voice  again  ! 

He  was  free  now.  Even  in  his  misery — for 
he  was  very  miserable — he  could  not  refrain 
from  telling  himself  that.  No  one  could  now 
l)ress  uncalled-for  into  his  study,  contradict  him 
in  the  i)resence  of  those  before  whom  he  was 
bound  to  be  authoritative,  and  rob  him  of  all  liis 
dignity.  There  was  no  one  else  of  whom  he 
was  afraiil.  She  had  at  least  kept  him  out  of 
the  hands  of  other  tyrants.  He  was  now  his 
own  master,  and  there  was  a  feeling — I  may  not 
call  it  of  relief,  for  as  yet  there  was  more  of  i)ain 
in  it  than  of  satisfaction — a  feeling  as  though 
he  had  escaped  from  an  old  trouble  at  a  terrible 
cost  of  which  he  could  not  as  yet  calculate  the 
amount.  He  knew  that  he  might  now  give  up 
all  idea  of  writing  to  the  archbishop. 

She  had  in  some  ways,  and  at  certain  periods 
of  his  life,  been  very  good  to  him.  She  had 
kept  his  money  for  him  and  made  things  go 
straight  when  they  had  been  poor.  His  inter- 
ests had  always  been  her  interests.  Without 
her  he  would  never  have  been  a  bishop.  So,  at 
least,  he  told  himself  now,  and  so  told  himself 
jirobably  with  truth.  She  had  been  very  careful 
of  his  children.  She  had  never  been  idle.  She 
had  never  been  fond  of  pleasure.  She  had 
neglected  no  acknowledged  duty.  He  did  not 
doubt  that  she  was  now  on  her  way  to  heaven. 
He  took  his  hands  down  from  his  head,  and 
clasping  them  together,  said  a  little  prayer.  It 
may  be  doubted  whether  he  quite  knew  for  what 
he  was  praying.  The  idea  of  praying  for  her 
soul,  now  that  she  was  dead,  would  have  scan- 
dalized him.  He  certainly  was  not  j)rayiiig  for 
his  own  soul.  I  think  he  was  praying  thnt  God 
might  save  him  from  being  glad  that  his  wife 
was  dead. 

But  she  was  dead — and,  as  it  were,  in  a  mo- 
ment! He  had  not  stirred  out  of  that  room 
since  she  had  been  there  with  him.  Then  there 
had  been  angry  words  between  them — perhaps 
more  determined  enmity  on  his  part  than  ever 
had  before  existed ;  and  they  had  parted  for  the 
last  time  with  bitter  animosity.  But  he  told 
himself  that  he  had  certainly  been  right  in  what 
he  had  done  then.  He  thought  he  had  been 
right  then.  And  so  his  mind  went  back  to  the 
Crawley  and  Thumble  question,  and  he  tried 
to  alleviate  the  misery  which  that  last  interview 
with  his  wife  now  created  by  assuring  himself 
that  he  at  least  had  been  justified  in  what  he 
had  done. 

But  yet  his  thoughts  were  very  tender  to  her. 


Nothing  reopens  the  springs  of  love  so  full}'  as 
absence,  and  no  absence  so  thoroughly  as  that 
which  must  needs  be  endless.  We  want  that 
which  we  have  not;  and  especially  that  which 
we  can  never  have.  She  had  told  him  in  the 
very  last  moments  of  her  presence  with  him  that 
he  was  wishing  that  she  were  dead,  and  he  had 
made  her  no  rejjly.  At  the  moment  he  had  felt, 
with  savage  anger,  that  such  was  his  wish.  Her 
words  had  now  come  to  pass,  and  he  \\as  a  wid- 
ower ;  and  he  assured  himself  that  he  would  give 
all  that  he  possessed  in  the  world  to  bring  her 
back  again. 

Yes,  he  was  a  widower,  and  he  might  do  as 
he  ])leased.     The  tyrant  was  gone,  and  he  was 

free.  The  tyrant  was  gone,  and  the  tyranny 
lad  douljtless  been  very  oiii)ressive.  Wlio  had 
suffered  as  he  had  done  ?  But  in  thus  being 
left  without  his  tyrant  he  was  wretchedly  deso- 
late. Might  it  not  be  that  the  tyranny  had  been 
good  for  him? — that  the  Lord  had  known  best 
what  wife  was  fit  for  him?  Then  he  thought 
of  a  storj'  which  he  had  read- — and  had  well 
marked  as  he  was  reading — of  some  man  who 
had  been  terriidy  afflicted  by  his  wife,  whose 
wife  had  starved  him  and  beaten  him  and  reviled 
him;  and  yet  this  man  had  been  able  to  thank 
his  God  for  having  thus  mortified  him  in  the 
flesh.  Might  it  not  be  that  the  mortification 
which  he  himself  had  doubtless  suffered  in  his 
flesh  had  been  intended  for  his  welfare,  and  had 
been  very  good  for  hin»  ?  But  if  this  were  so,  it 
might  be  that  the  mortification  was  now  re- 
moved because  the  Lord  knew  that  his  servant 
had  been  sufficiently  mortified.  He  had  not 
been  starved  or  beaten,  but  the  mortification  had 
been  certainly  severe.  Then  there  came  words 
— into  his  mind,  not  into  his  mouth — "The 
Lord  sent  the  thorn,  and  the  Lord  has  taken  it 
away.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 
After  tluit  he  was  very  angry  with  himself,  and 
tried  to  pray  that  he  might  be  forgiven.  While 
he  was  so  striving  there  came  a  low  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Mrs.  Draper  again  entered  the  room. 

"Dr.  Filgrave,  my  lord,  was  not  at  home," 
said  Mrs.  Draper ;  "  but  he  will  be  sent  the  very 
moment  he  arrives." 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Draper." 

"But,  my  lord,  Avill  you  not  come  to  your 
dinner?  A  little  soup,  or  a  morsel  of  some- 
thing to  eat,  and  a  glass  of  wine,  will  enable 
your  lordship  to  bear  it  better."  He  allowed 
Mrs.  Draper  to  persuade  him,  and  followed  her 
into  the  dining-room.  "Do  not  go,  Mrs.  Dra- 
per," he  said ;  "I  would  rather  that  you  should 
stay  with  me."  So  Mrs.  Draper  staid  with 
him,  and  administered  to  his  w'ants.  He  was 
desirous  of  being  seen  by  as  few  eyes  as  possible 
in  these  the  first  moments  of  his  freedom. 

He  saw  Dr.  Filgrave  twice,  both  before  and 
after  the  doctor  had  been  up  stairs.  There  was 
no  doubt,  Dr.  Filgrave  said,  that  it  was  as  Mrs. 
Draper  had  surmised.  The  poor  lady  was  suf- 
fering, and  had  for  years  been  suffering,  from 
heart -complaint.  To  her  husband  she  had 
never  said  a  word  on  the  subject.     To  Mrs. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


303 


Draper  a  word  had  been  said  now  and  again — 
a  word  when  some  moment  of  fear  would  come, 
when  some  sharp  stroke  of  agony  woukl  tell  of 
danger.  But  Mrs.  Draper  had  kept  the  secret 
of  her  mistress,  and  none  of  the  family  had 
known  that  there  was  aught  to  be  feared.  Dr. 
Filgrave,  indeed,  did  tell  the  bishop  that  he  had 
dreaded  all  along  exactly  that  which  had  hap- 
pened. He  had  said  the  same  to  Mr.  Kerechild, 
the  surgeon,  when  they  two  had  had  a  consulta- 
tion together  at  the  jialace  on  tlie  occasion  of  a 
somewhat  alarming  birth  of  a  grandchild.'  But 
lie  mixed  up  this  information  with  so  nmch 
medical  Latin,  and  was  so  pompous  over  it,  and 
the  bishop  was  so  anxious  to  be  rid  of  him,  that 
Ills  words  did  not  have  much  effect.  "What  did 
it  all  matter?  The  thorn  was  gone,  and  the 
wife  was  dead,  Jtnd  the  widower  must  balance 
his  gain  and  loss  as  best  ho  might. 

He  slept  well,  but  wlien  he  woke  in  the  morn- 
ing the  dreariness  of  his  loneliness  was  very 
strong  on  him.  He  must  do  something,  and 
must  see  somebody,  but  he  felt  that  lie  did  not 
know  how  to  bear  himself  in  his  new  position. 
He  must  send  of  course  for  his  chajdain,  and  tell 
his  chaplain  to  open  all  letters  and  to  answer 
them  for  a  week.  Then  he  remembered  how 
many  of  his  letters  in  days  of  yore  had  been 
opened  and  been  answered  by  the  helpmate  who 
had  just  gone  from  liim.  Since  Dr.  Tem])est's 
visit  he  had  insisted  that  the  jialace  letter-bag 
should  always  be  brought  in  the  first  instance  to 
him  ;  and  this  had  been  done,  greatly  to  the  an- 
noyance of  his  wife.  In  order  that  it  might  be 
done  the  bishop  had  been  up  every  morning  an 
hour  before  his  usual  time ;  and  every  body  in 
the  household  had  known  wliy  it  was  so.  He 
thought  of  this  now  as  the  bag  was  brought 
to  him  on  the  first  morning  of  his  freedom.  He 
could  have  it  where  he  pleased  now— either  in 
his  bedroom  or  left  for  him  untouched  on  the 
breakf;ist-tablc  till  he  should  go  to  it.  "Bless- 
ed be  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  as  he 
thought  of  all  this;  but  he  did  not  stop  to  ana- 
lyze what  he  was  saying.  On  this  morning  he 
would  not  enjoy  his  liberty,  but  desired  that  the 
letter-bag  might  be  taken  to  Mr.  Snapper,  the 
chaplain. 

The  news  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  death  had  spread 
all  over  Barchester  on  the  evening  of  its  occur- 
reiice,  and  had  been  received  with  that  feeling 
of  distant  awe  which  is  always  accompanied  hy 
some  degree  of  pleasurable  sensation.  There 
was  no  one  in  Barchester  to  lament  a  mother, 
or  a  sister,  or  a  friend  who  was  really  loved. 
There  were  those,  doubtless,  who  regretted  the 
woman's  death  ;  and  even  some  who  regretted  it 
without  any  feeling  of  personal  damage  done  to 
themselves.  There  had  come  to  be  around  Mrs. 
Proudie  a  party  who  thought  as  she  thought  on 
church  matters,  and  such  people  had  lost  their 
head,  and  thereby  their  strength.  And  she 
had  been  stanch  to  her  own  party,  preferring 
bad  tea  from  a  low-church  grocer  to  good  tea 
from  a  grocer  who  went  to  the  ritualistic  church 
or  to  no  church  at  all.     And  it  is  due  to  her  to 


say  that  she  did  not  forget  those  who  were  true 
to  her — looking  after  them  'mindfully  where 
looking  after  might  be  jirofitable,  and  fighting 
their  battles  where  fighting  might  be  more  serv- 
iceable. I  do  not  think  that  the  ajipetitc  for 
breakfast  of  any  man  or  woman  in  Barchester 
was  disturbed  by  the  news  of  Mrs.  Proudie's 
death,  but  there  were  some  who  felt  that  a  trou- 
ble had  fallen  on  them. 

Tidings  of  the  catastrophe  readied  Hiram's 
Hospital  on  the  evening  of  its  occurrence — 
Hiram's  Hosj)ital,  where  dwelt  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Quiverful  with  all  their  children.  Now  Mrs. 
Quiverful  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Proudie,  having  been  placed  in  her  present 
comfortable  home  by  that  lady's  patronage. 
Mrs.  Quiverful  perhaps  understood  the  charac- 
ter of  the  deceased  woman,  and  expressed  her 
o])inion  respecting  it  as  graphically  as  did  any 
one  in  Barchester.  There  was  the  natural  sur- 
])risc  felt  at  the  Warden's  lodge  in  the  IIos])ital 
when  the  tidings  were  first  received  there,  and 
the  Quiverful  family  was  at  first  too  full  of  dis- 
may, regrets,  and  surmises  to  be  able  to  give 
themselves  im])artially  to  criticism.  But  on  the 
following  morning,  conversation  at  the  breakfast- 
table  naturally  referring  to  the  great  loss  which 
the  bishop  had  sustained,  Mrs.  Quiverful  thus 
pronounced  her  opinion  of  her  friend's  charac- 
ter :  "  You'll  find  that  he'll  feel  it,  Q.,"  she  said 
to  her  husband,  in  answer  to  some  sarcastic  re- 
mark made  by  him  as  to  tiie  removal  of  the 
thorn.  "He'll  feel  it,  though  she  was  almost 
too  many  for  him  while  she  was  alive." 

"I  dare  say  he'll  feel  it  at  first,"  said  Quiv- 
erful; "but  I  think  he'll  be  more  comfortable 
than  he  has  been." 

"  Of  course  he'll  feel  it,  and  go  on  feeling  it 
till  he  dies,  if  he's  the  man  I  take  him  to  be. 
You're  not  to  think  that  there  has  been  no  love 
because  there  used  to  be  some  words,  that  he'll 
find  himself  the  happier  because  he  can  do  things 
more  as  he  pleases.  She  was  a  great  hel])  to 
him,  and  he  must  have  known  that  she  was,  in 
spite  of  the  sharpness  of  her  tongue.  No  doubt 
she  was  sharp.  No  doubt  she  was  upsetting. 
And  she  could  make  herself  a  fool  too  in  her 
struggles  to  have  every  thing  her  own  way. 
But,  Q.,  there  were  worse  women  than  Mrs. 
Proudie.  Slie  was  never  one  of  your  idle  ones, 
and  I'm  quite  sure  that  no  man  or  woman  ever 
heard  her  say  a  word  against  her  husband  be- 
hind his  back." 

"All  the  same,  she  gave  him  a  terribly  bad 
life  of  it,  if  all  is  true  that  we  hear." 

"There  are  men  who  must  have  what  you 
call  a  terribly  bad  life  of  it,  whatever  way  it 
goes  with  them.  The  bishop  is  weak,  and  he 
wants  somebody  near  to  him  to  be  strong.  She 
was  strong — perhaps  too  strong;  bnt  he  had  his 
advantage  out  of  it.  After  all,  I  don't  know 
that  his  life  has  been  so  terribly  bad.  I  dare 
say  he's  had  every  thing  very  comfortable  about 
him.  And  a  man  ought  to  be  grateful  for  that, 
though  very  few  men  ever  are." 

Mr.  Quiverful's  predecessor  at  the  Hospital, 


304 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  UF  BAliSET. 


old  Mr.  Hanling,  whose  halcyon  duys  in  Bar- 
chester  hsid  beeii  passed  before  tlic  coming  of 
the  I'roiulies,  was  in  bed  i)la}ing  cat's-cradlc 
with  I'osy  seated  on  tlie  counteri)anc  when  the 
tidings  of  Mrs.  Proiidie's  deatli  were  brouglit  to 
him  by  Jlrs.  Baxter.  "Oh,  Sir!"  said  Mrs. 
Baxter,  seating  herself  on  a  ciiair  by  the  bed- 
side. Mr.  Harding  liked  Mrs.  Baxter  to  sit 
down,  because  he  was  almost  sure  on  such  oc- 
casions to  have  the  advantage  of  a  prolonged 
conversation. 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Baxter?" 
"Oh,  Sir!" 

"Is  any  thing  the  matter?"  And  the  old 
man  attemjtted  to  raise  himself  in  his  bed. 
"You  mustn't  frighten  grandjia,"  said  I'osy. 
"No,  my  dear;  and  tliere  isn't  nothing  to 
frighten  him.  There  isn't  indeed,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. Tiiey're  all  well  at  IMumstcad,  and  when 
I  heard  from  the  missus  at  Venice  every  thing 
was  going  on  well." 

"But  what  is  it,  Mrs.  Baxter?" 
"God  forgive  her  all  her  sins — -Mrs.  Proudie 
ain't  no  more."  Now  there  had  been  terrible 
feud  between  the  palace  and  the  deanery  for 
years,  in  carrying  on  which  the  persons  of  the 
opposed  households  were  wont  to  express  them- 
selves with  eager  animosity.  Mrs.  Baxter  and 
Mrs.  Draper  never  si)()ke  to  each  otiier.  The 
two  coachmen  each  longed  for  an  opportuni- 
ty to  take  the  otlier  before  a  magistrate  for 
some  breach  of  the  law  of  the  road  in  driv- 
ing. The  footmen  abused  each  other,  and  the 
grooms  occasionally  fought.  The  masters  and 
mistresses  contented  themselves  with  simple 
hatred.  Therefore  it  was  not  surprising  that 
Mrs.  Baxter,  in  speaking  of  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Proudie,  should  remember  first  her  sins. 
"Mrs.  Proudie  dead !"  said  the  old  man. 
"Indeed  she  is,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  Mrs. 
Baxter,  putting  both  her  hands  together  ])iously. 
"We're  just  grass,  ain't  we,  Sir?  and  dust  and 
clay  and  flowers  of  the  field?"  Whether  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  most  partaken  of  the  clayey  nature 
or  of  the  flowery  nature,  Mrs.  Baxter  did  not 
stop  to  consider. 

"  Mrs.  Proudie  dead !"  said  Posy,  with  a  so- 
lemnity that  was  all  her  own.  "Then  she 
won't  scold  the  poor  bishop  any  more." 

"  No,  my  dear ;  she  won't  scold  any  body 
any  more ;  and  it  will  be  a  blessing  for  some, 
I  must  say.  Every  body  is  always  so  consider- 
ate in  this  house,  ]\Iiss  Posy,  that  we  none  of 
us  know  notliing  about  what  that  is." 

"Dead !"  said  Mr.  Harding  again.  "  I  think, 
if  you  please,  Mrs.  Baxter,  you  shall  leave  me 
for  a  little  time,  and  take  Miss  Posy  with  you." 
He  had  been  in  the  city  of  Barchester  some  fif- 
ty years,  and  here  was  one  who  might  have  been 
his  daughter,  wdio  had  come  there  scarcely  ten 
years  since,  and  who  now  had  gone  before  him ! 
He  had  never  loved  IVIrs.  Proudie.  Perhaps  he 
had  gone  as  near  to  disliking  Mrs.  Proudie  as 
he  had  ever  gone  to  disliking  any  person.  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  wounded  him  in  every  part  that 
was  most  sensitive.     It  would  be  long  to  tell, 


nor  need  it  be  told  now,  how  she  had  ridiculed 
his  catliedral  work,  how  she  hail  made  nothing 
of  him,  how  slie  had  despised  him,  always  man- 
ifesting her  contemi)t  plainly.  He  had  been 
even  driven  to  rebuke  her,  and  it  had  perhaps 
been  the  only  ])ersonal  rebuke  which  he  had 
ever  uttered  in  Barchester.  But  now  she  was 
gone ;  and  he  thought  of  her  simply  as  an  act- 
ive ])ious  wonmn,  who  had  been  taken  away 
from  her  work  before  her  time.  And  for  the 
bishop,  no  idea  ever  cnter.ed  Mr.  Harding's 
mind  as  to  the  removal  of  a  thorn.  The  man 
had  lost  his  life's  companion  at  that  time  of  life 
when  such  a  companion  is  most  needed  ;  and 
Mr.  Harding  grieved  ibr  him  with  sincerity. 

The  news  went  out  to  I'lumstead  Episcopi  by 
tlie  postman,  and  happened  to  reach  the  arch- 
deacon as  he  was  talking  to  his  rector  at  the 
'kittle  gate  leading  into  the  church-yard.  '•  Mrs. 
Proudie  dead!"  he  almost  shouted,  as  the  post- 
man notified  the  fact  to  him.      "Im])ossible!" 

"It  be  so  for  zartain,  yer  reverence,"  said 
the  jjostman,  who  was  proud  of  his  news. 

"Heavens!"  ejaculated  the  archdeacon,  and 
then  hurried  in  to  his  wife.  "My  dear,"  he 
said — and  as  he  spoke  he  could  hardly  deliver 
himself  of  his  words,  so  eager  was  he  to  speak 
them — "who  do  you  think  is  dead?  Gracious 
Heavens!  Mrs.  Proudie  is  dead!"  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly  dropped  from  her  hand  the  teaspoonful  of  tea 
that  was  just  going  into  the  pot,  and  repeated 
her  husband's  words.  "Mrs.  Proudie  dead?" 
Tiiere  was  a  pause,  during  which  they  looked 
into  each  other's  faces.  "My  dear,  I  don't 
believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

But  she  did  believe  it  very  shortly.  There 
were  no  prayers  at  Plumstead  rectory  that  morn- 
ing. The  archdeacon  immediately  went  out 
into  the  village,  and  soon  obtained  sufficient 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  that  which  the  postman 
liad  told  him.  Then  he  ruslied  back  to  his  wife. 
"It's  true,"  he  said.  "It's  quite  true.  She's 
dead.  There's  no  doubt  abcuit  that.  She's  dead. 
It  was  last  night  about  seven.  Tliat  was  when 
they  found  her,  at  least,  and  she  may  have  died 
about  an  hour  before.  Filgrave  says'  not  more 
than  an  hour." 

"  And  how  did  she  die  ?" 

"Heart-complaint.  She  was  standing  up, 
taking  hold  of  the  bedstead,  and  so  they  found 
her."  Then  there  was  a  pause,  during  which 
the  archdeacon  sat  down  to  his  breakfast.  "I 
wonder  how  he  felt  when  he  heard  it?" 

"  Of  course  he  was  terribly  shocked." 

"I've  no  doubt  he  was  shocked.  Any  man 
would  be  sliocked.  But  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  what  a  relief  I" 

' '  How  can  you  speak  of  it  in  that  way  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly. 

' '  How  am  I  to  speak  of  it  in  any  other  way  ?" 
said  the  archdeacon.  "Of  course  I  shouldn't 
go  and  say  it  out  in  the  street." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  it  any 
where,"  said  Mrs.  Grantl}'.  "The  poor  man 
no  doubt  feels  about  his  wife  in  the  same  way 
that  any  body  else  Avould." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


30i] 


"And  if  any  other  poor  man  has  got  such  a 
wife  as  she  was,  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  lie 
woukl  be  ghxd  to  be  rid  of  her.  I  don't  say  that 
he  wished  her  to  die,  or  that  he  would  have  done 
any  thing  to  contrive  her  death — " 

"Gracious,  archdeacon!  do  pray  hold  your 
tongue." 

"But  it  stands  to  reason  that  her  going  will 
be  a  great  relief  to  him.  What  has  she  done 
for  him?  She  has  made  him  contemptible  to 
every  body  in  the  diocese  by  her  interference, 
and  his  life  has  been  a  burden  to  him  through 
her  violence." 

"Is  that  the  w'ay  you  carry  out  your  proverb 
of  De  mortuis  ?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"The  proverb  of  De  mortuis  is  founded  on 
humbug.  Humbug  out  of  doors  is  necessary. 
It  would  not  do  for  you  and  me  to  go  into  the 
High  Street  just  now  and  say  what  we  think 
about  Mrs.  Proudie  ;  but  I  don't  sujjpose  that 
kind  of  thing  need  be  kept  up  in  here,  between 
you  and  me.  She  was  an  uncomfortable  woman 
— so  uncomfortable  that  I  can  not  believe  that 
any  one  will  regret  her.  Dear  me !  Only  to 
think  that  she  has  gone !  You  may  as  well  give 
me  my  tea." 

I  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Grantly 's  opinion 
differed  much  from  that  expressed  by  her  hus- 
band, ortliat  she  was,  in  truth,  the  least  offended 
by  the  archdeacon's  plain  speech.  But  it  must 
be  remembered  that  there  was  probably  no  house 
in  the  diocese  in  which  Mrs.  Proudie  liad  been 
so  thoroughly  hated  as  she  had  been  at  the  Plum- 
stead  rectory.  There  had  been  hatred  at  the 
deanery ;  but  the  hatred  at  the  deanery  had  been 
mild  in  comparison  with  the  hatred  at  Plumstead. 
The  archdeacon  was  a  sound  friend ;  but  he  was 
also  a  sound  enemy.  From  the  very  first  arrival 
of  the  Proudies  at  Barchester  Mrs.  Proudie  had 
thrown  down  her  gauntlet  to  him,  and  he  had 
not  been  slow  in  picking  it  up.  The  war  had 
been  internecine,  and  each  had  given  the  other 
ten-jble  wounds.  It  had  been  understood  that 
there  should  be  no  quarter,  and  there  had  been 
none.  His  enemy  was  now  dead,  and  the  arcli- 
deacon  could  not  bring  himself  to  adopt  before 
his  wife  the  namby-pamby  everyday  decency 
of  speaking  well  of  one  of  whom  he  had  ever 
thought  ill,  or  of  expressing  regret  when  no  re- 
gret could  be  felt.  "  May  all  her  sins  be  forgiv- 
en her,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "  Amen  !"  said  the 
archdeacon.  There  was  something  in  the  tone 
of  his  Amen  which  thoroughly  implied  that  it 
was  uttered  only  on  the  understanding  that  her 
departure  from  the  existing  world  was  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  unmitigated  good,  and  that  she 
should,  at  any  rate,  never  come  back  again  to 
Barchester. 

When  Lady  Lufton  heard  the  tidings  she 
was  not  so  bold  in  speaking  of  it  as  was  her 
friend  the  archdeacon.  "Mrs.  Proudie  dead!" 
she  said  to  her  daughter-in-law.  This  was  some 
hours  after  tlie  news  had  reached  the  house,  and 
when  the  fact  of  the  poor  lady's  death  had  been 
fullv  recognized.  "  What  will  he  do  without 
her"?" 


"The  same  as  other  men  do,"  said  young 
Ladj'  Lufton. 

"But,  my  dear,  he  is  not  the  same  as  other 
men.  He  is  not  at  all  like  other  men.  He  is 
so  weak  that  he  can  not  walk  without  a  stick  to 
lean  upon.  No  doubt  she  was  a  virago,  a  wo- 
man who  could  not  control  her  temper  for  a  mo- 
ment! No  doubt  she  had  led  him  a  terrible 
life  !  I  have  often  pitied  him  with  all  my  heart. 
But  nevertheless  she  was  useful  to  him.  I  sup- 
pose she  was  useful  to  him.  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  Mrs.  Proudie  is  dead.  Had  he  gone, 
it  would  have  seemed  so  much  more  natural. 
Poor  woman !  I  dare  say  she  had  her  good 
])oints."  The  reader  will  be  pleased  to  remem- 
ber that  the  Luftons  had  ever  been  strong  par- 
tisans on  the  side  of  the  Grantlys. 

The  news  made  its  way  even  to  Hogglestock 
on  the  same  day.  Mrs.  Crawley,  when  she 
heard  it,  went  out  after  her  husband,  who  was 
in  the  school.  "Dead!"  said  he,  in  answer  to 
her  whisper.  "  Do  you  tell  me  that  the  woman 
is  dead?"  Then  Mrs.  Crawley  explained  that 
the  tidings  were  credible.  "May  God  forgive 
her  all  her  sins,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  "She  was 
a  violent  woman,  certainly,  and  I  think  that  she 
misunderstood  her  duties  ;  but  I  do  not  say  that 
slie  was  a  bad  woman.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  she  was  earnest  in  her  endeavors  to  do 
good."  It  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Crawley  that 
he  and  his  affair  had,  in  truth,  been  the  cause 
of  her  death. 

It  was  thus  that  she  was  spoken  of  for  a  few 
days ;  and  then  men  and  women  ceased  to  speak 
much  of  her,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  bishop 
instead.  A  month  had  not  passed  before  it  was 
surmised  that  a  man  so  long  accustomed  to  the 
comforts  of  married  life  would  marry  again  ; 
and  even  then  one  lady  connected  with  low- 
church  clergymen  in  and  around  the  city  was 
named  as  a  probable  successor  to  the  great  lady 
who  was  gone.  For  myself,  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  the  bishop  will  for  the  future  be  con- 
tent to  lean  upon  his  cliaplain. 

The  monument  that  was  put  up  to  our  old 
friend's  memory  in  one  of  the  side  aisles  of  the 
choir  of  the  cathedral  was  supposed  to  be  de- 
signed and  executed  in  good  taste.  Tliere  was 
a  broken  column,  and  on  the  column  simply  the 
words,  "  My  beloved  wife  !"  Then  there  was  a 
slab  by  the  column,  bearing  Mrs.  Proudie's  name, 
with  the  date  of  her  life  and  death.  Beneath 
this  was  the  common  inscription  : 
^^Requiescat  in  pace." 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

THE    OBSTINACY    OF    SIR.  CRAWLEY. 

Dr.  Tempest,  when  he  heard  the  news,  sent 
immediately  to  Mr.  Robarts,  begging  him  to 
come  over  to  gilverbridge.  But  this  message 
was  not  occasioned  solely  by  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Proudie.  Dr.  Tempest  had  also  heard  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  submitted  himself  to  the  bishoj) ; 


30G 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


tliat  instant  advantage — and,  as  Dr.  Tempest 
tlioiif^lit,  luit'air  advantage — had  been  taken  of 
Mr.  Crawley's  submission ;  and  that  tlie  perni- 
cious Thiunble  liad  been  at  once  sent  over  to 
Hdgglestofk.  Had  these  i)ahu'C  doings  with 
refcivncc  to  Mr.  Crawley  been  unaccoin])anicd 
by  the  catastrophe  which  had  happened,  the  doc- 
tor, nuK'h  as  he  might  have  regretted  them,  would 
lirobably  have  felt  that  tliere  was  nothing  to  be 
don!\  He  could  not  in  such  case  have  prevent- 
ed Thumble's  journey  to  Hogglestock  on  the 
next  Sunday,  and  certainly  he  could  not  have 
softened  the  heart  of  tiic  ])residing  genius  at 
the  i)alace.  But  things  were  very  dilfcrcnt  now. 
Tlie  jircsiding  genius  was  gone.  Every  body  at 
the  ])alai'e  would  for  a  while  be  weak  and  vacil- 
lating. Tiiumble  would  be  then  thoroughly 
cowed ;  and  it  might  at  any  rate  be  possible  to 
make  some  movement  in  Mr.  Crawley's  favor. 
Dr.  Tempest,  therefore,  sent  for  Mr.  Kobarts. 

"  I'm  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  Ro- 
harts,"  said  the  doctor;  "but  then  you  arc  so 
much  younger  than  I  am,  and  I've  an  idea  that 
you  would  do  more  for  this  poor  man  than  any 
one  else  in  the  diocese."  Mr.  Robarts  of  course 
declared  that  he  did  not  begrudge  ids  trouble, 
and  that  he  would  do  any  thing  in  his  power  for 
the  poor  man.  "I  think  that  you  should  see 
him  again,  and  that  you  should  then  sec  Thuni- 
ble  also.  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  con- 
descend to  be  civil  to  Thumble.     I  could  not." 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  incivility  would  not 
be  more  efficacious,"  said  Mr.  Robarts. 

"  Very  likely.  There  are  men  who  are  deaf 
as  adders  to  courtesy,  but  who  arc  compelled  to 
obedience  at  once  by  ill-usage.  Very  likely 
Thumble  is  one  of  them  ;  but  of  that  you  will 
be  the  best  judge  yourself.  I  would  see  Craw- 
ley first,  and  get  his  consent." 

"That's  the  difficulty." 

"Then  I  should  go  on  without  his  consent, 
and  I  would  see  Thumble  and  the  bishop's  chap- 
lain, Snapper.  I  think  you  might  nuinage  just 
at  this  moment,  when  tliey  will  all  be  a  little 
abasiied  and  perplexed  by  this  woman's  death,  to 
arrange  tliat  simply  nothing  shall  be  done.  The 
great  thing  will  be  that  Crawley  should  go  on 
with  the  duty  till  the  assizes.  If  it  should  then 
ha]ipcn  tliat  he  goes  into  Barchester,  is  acquit- 
ted, and  comes  back  again,  the  whole  thing  will 
be  over,  and  there  will  be  no  further  interfer- 
ence in  the  parish.  If  I  were  you  I  think  I 
would  try  it."  Mr.  Robarts  said  that  he  would 
try  it.  "I  dare  say  Mr.  Crawley  will  be  a  little 
stiti-necked  with  you." 

"  He  will  be  very  stiflf-neckcd  with  me,"  said 
Mr.  Robarts. 

"But  I  can  hardly  think  that  he  will  throw 
away  the  only  means  he  lias  of  suj)porting  his 
wife  and  children  when  he  finds  that  there  can 
be  no  occasion  for  his  doing  so.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose that  any  person  wishes  him  to  throw  up  his 
work  now  that  that  ])oor  woman  has  gone." 

Mr.  Crawley  had  been  almost  in  good  spirits 
since  the  last  visit  which  Mr.  Thumble  had  made 
to  him.     It  seemed  as  though  the  loss  of  every 


thing  in  the  Avorld  was  in  some  way  satisfactory 
to  him.  He  had  now  given  up  his  living  by 
his  own  doing,  and  had  after  a  fashion  acknowl- 
edged his  guilt  by  this  act.  He  had  proclaimed 
to  all  around  him  that  he  did  not  think  himself 
to  be  any  longer  fit  to  perform  the  sacred  func- 
tions of  his  office.  He  spoke  of  his  trial  as 
though  a  verdict  against  him  must  be  the  result. 
He  knew  that  in  going  into  prison  he  would 
leave  his  wife  ami  children  dependent  on  the 
charity  of  their  friends— on  charity  which  they 
must  condescend  to  accept,  though  he  could  not 
condescend  to  ask  it.  And  yet  he  was  able  to 
carry  himself  now  with  a  greater  show  of  fortitude 
than  had  been  within  his  power  wdicn  the  extent 
of  his  calamity  was  more  doubtful.  I  must  not 
ask  the  reader  to  suppose  that  he  was  cheerful. 
To  have  been  cheerful  under  such  circumstances 
would  have  been  itdmman.  But  he  carried  his 
head  on  high,  and  walked  firmly,  and  gave  his 
orders  at  home  with  a  clear  voice.  His  wife, 
who  was  necessarily  more  despondent  than  ever, 
wondered  at  him — but  wondered  in  silence.  It 
certainly  seemed  as  though  the  very  extremity 
of  ill-fortune  was  good  for  him.  And  he  was 
very  diligent  with  his  school,  passing  the  great- 
er part  of  the  morning  with  the  children.  Mr. 
Thumble  had  told  him  that  he  would  come  on 
Sunday,  and  that  he  would  then  take  charge  of  ' 
the  parish.  Up  to  the  coming  of  Mr.  Thumble 
he  would  do  every  thing  in  the  parish  that  could 
be  done  by  a  clergyman  with  a  clear  spirit  and 
a  free  heart.  Mr.  Thumble  should  not  find  that 
spiritual  weeds  had  grown  rank  in  the  parish  be- 
cause of  his  misfortunes. 

Mrs.  Broudic  had  died  on  the  Tuesday — that 
having  been  the  day  of  Mr.  Thumble's  visit  to 
Hogglestock — and  Mr.  Robarts  had  gone  over  to 
Silverbridge,  in  answer  to  Dr.  Tempest's  invita- 
tion, on  the  Thursday.  He  had  not,  therefore, 
the  command  of  much  time,  it  being  his  express 
object  to  prevent  the  a])pearance  of  Mr.  Thumble 
at  Hogglestock  on  the  next  Sunday.  He  had 
gone  to  Silverbridge  by  railway,  and  had,  there- 
fore, been  obliged  to  postpone  his  visit  to  Mr. 
Crawley  till  the  next  day  ;  but  early  on  the  Fri- 
day morning  he  rode  over  to  Hogglestock.  Tliat 
he  did  not  arrive  there  with  a  broken-knee'd 
horse,  the  reader  may  be  quite  sure.  In  all 
matters  of  that  sort  Mr.  Robarts  was  ever  above 
reproach.  He  rode  a  good  horse,  and  drove  a 
neat  gig,  and  was  always  well  dressed.  On  this 
account  Mr.  Crawley,  though  he  really  liked  Mr. 
Robarts,  and  was  thankful  to  him  for  many  kind- 
nesses, could  never  bear  his  presence  with  per- 
fect equanimity.  Robarts  was  no  scholar,  was 
not  a  great  preacher,  had  obtained  no  celebrity 
as  a  churchman — had,  in  fact,  done  nothing  to 
merit  great  reward ;  and  yet  every  tfiing  had 
been  given  to  him  with  an  abundant  hand. 
Within  the  last  twelve-month  his  wife  had  in- 
herited Mr.  Crawley  did  not  care  to  know  how 
many  thousand  pounds.  And  yet  Mr.  Robarts 
had  won  all  that  he  possessed  by  being  a  clergy- 
man. Was  it  iiossible  that  Mr.  Crawley  should 
regard  such  a  man  with  equanimity  ?     Robarts 


I 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


307 


rode  over  witli  a  groom  behind  him — really  tak- 
ing the  groom  because  he  knew  that  Mr.  Craw- 
ley would  have  no  one  to  hold  liis  horse  for  him 
— and  the  groom  was  tiic  source  of  great  oiVensc. 
He  came  upon  Mr.  Crawley  standing  at  the 
school  door,  and  stopping  at  once,  jumped  off 
his  nag.  There  was  something  in  the  way  in 
wliicli  he  sprang  out  of  the  saddle  and  threw  tlie 
reins  to  the  raau  which  was  not  clerical  in  Mr. 
Crawley's  eyes.  No  man  could  be  so  quick  in 
tlie  matter  of  a  horse  who  spent  as  many  hours 
witli  the  poor  and  with  the  children  as  should 
be  spent  by  a  parish  clergyman.  It  might  be 
probable  that  Mr.  Kobarts  had  never  stolen  twen- 
ty pounds — might  never  be  accused  of  so  dis- 
graceful a  crime — but  nevertiielcss  Mr.  Crawley 
had  his  own  ideas,  and  made  his  own  compari- 
sons. 

"Crawley,"  said  Robarts,  "I  am  so  glad  to 
find  you  at  liome." 

"I  am  generally  to  be  found  in  the  parish," 
said  the  perpetual  curate  of  Hogglestock. 

"I  know  you  are,"  said  Robarts,  who  knew 
the  man  well,  and  cared  nothing  for  his  friend's 
jieculiarities  wlien  he  felt  his  own  withers  to  be 
unwrung.  "But  you  might  have  been  down 
at  Ilogglc  End  with  the  brickmakers,  and  then 
I  sliould  have  had  to  go  after  you." 

"  I  should  have  grieved — "  began  Crawley  ; 
but  Robarts  interrupted  him  at  once. 

"  Let  us  go  for  a  walk,  and  I'll  leave  the  man 
with  the  horses.  I've  something  special  to 
say  to  you,  and  I  can  say  it  better  out  here  than 
in  the  house.  Grace  is  quite  well,  and  sends 
her  love.     She  is  growing  to  look  .so  beautiful !" 

"  I  hope  she  may  grow  in  gi'ace  with  God," 
said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  She's  as  good  a  girl  as  I  ever  knew.  By- 
the-by,  you  had  Henry  Grantly  over  here  the 
otlier  day  ?" 

"Major  Grantly,  whom  I  can  not  name  with- 
out expressing  my  esteem  for  him,  did  do  us 
the  honor  of  calling  upon  us  not  very  long  since. 
If  it  be  with  reference  to  him  that  you  have  tak- 
en til  is  trouble — " 

"No,  no;  not  at  all.  I'll  allow  him  and 
the  ladies  to  fight  out  that  battle.  I've  not  the 
least  doubt  in  the  world  how  tliat  will  go. 
"When  I'm  told  that  she  made  a  complete  con- 
quest of  the  archdeacon  there  can  not  be  a 
doubt  about  that." 

"  A  conquest  of  the  archdeacon  !" 

But  Mr.  Robarts  did  not  wish  to  have  to  ex- 
plain any  thing  further  about  the  arclideacon. 
"Wei-e  you  not  terribly  shocked,  Crawley,"  he 
asked,  "  when  you  heard  of  tlie  death  of  Mrs. 
Proudie  ?" 

"It  was  sudden  and  very  awful,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley.  "  Such  deaths  are  always  shocking. 
Not  more  so,  perhaps,  as  regards  the  wife  of  a 
bishop  than  with  any  other  woman." 

"  Only  we  happened  to  know  her." 

"  No  doubt  the  finite  and  meagre  nature  of 
our  feelings  does  prevent  us  from  extending  our 
symjiathies  to  those  whom  we  have  not  seen  in 
the  flesh.     It  should  not  be  so,  and  would  not 


with  one  who  had  nurtured  his  heart  witli  ])r(<i)- 
er  care.  And  we  are  prone  to  permit  an  evil 
worse  than  that  to  canker  our  regards  and  to 
foster  and  to  mar  our  solicitudes.  Those  who 
are  high  in  station  strike  us  more  by  their  joys 
and  sorrows  than  do  the  poor  and  lowly.  Were 
some  young  duke's  wife,  wedded  but  the  other 
day,  to  die,  all  England  would  put  on  some 
show  of  mourning — nay,  would  feel  some  true 
gleam  of  pity ;  but  nobody  cares  for  the  wid- 
owed brickmaker  seated  with  his  starving  in- 
fant on  his  cold  hearth." 

"  Of  course  we  hear  more  of  the  big  people," 
said  Robarts. 

"  Ay ;  and  think  more  of  them.  But  do  not 
suppose,  Sir,  that  I  comjilain  of  this  man  or  that 
woman  because  his  sympathies,  or  hers,  runs 
out  of  that  course  which  my  reason  tells  me  they 
should  hold.  The  man  with  whom  it  would 
not  be  so  would  simply  be  a  god  among  men.  It 
is  in  his  j)erfoction  as  a  man  that  we  recognize 
the  divinity  of  Christ.  It  is  in  the  imperfec- 
tion of  men  that  we  recognize  our  necessity  for 
a  Christ.  Yes,  Sir,  the  death  cf  the  poor  lady 
at  Barcliester  was  very  sudden.  I  hope  that  my 
lord  the  bishop  bears  with  becoming  fortitude 
the  heavy  misfortune.  Tiiey  say  that  he  was  a 
man  much  beholden  to  his  wife — prone  to  lean 
upon  her  in  his  goings  out  and  comings  in. 
For  such  a  man  such  a  loss  is  more  dreadful 
perhaps  than  for  another." 

"  Tliey  say  she  led  him  a  terrible  life,  you 
know." 

"I  am  not  prone.  Sir,  to  believe  much  of 
what  I  hear  about  the  domesticities  of  other 
men,  knowing  how  little  any  otiier  man  can 
know  of  my  own.  And  I  have,  tnethinks,  ob- 
served a  proneness  in  the  world  to  ridicule  that 
dependence  on  a  woman  wliich  every  married 
man  should  acknowledge  in  regard  to  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  if  he  can  trust  her  as  well  as  love 
her.  "When  I  hear  jocose  proverbs  spoken  as  to 
men,  such  as  that  in  this  house  the  gray  mare 
is  the  better  horse,  or  that  in  that  house  the  wife 
wears  that  garment  which  is  supposed  to  denote 
virile  command,  knowing  that  the  joke  is  eas}', 
and  that  meekness  in  a  man  is  more  truly  noble 
than  a  habit  of  stern  authority,  I  do  not  allow 
them  to  go  far  with  me  in  influencing  my  judg- 
ment." 

So  spoke  Mr.  Crawley,  who  never  permitted 
the  slightest  interference  witli  his  own  word  in 
his  own  family,  and  who  had  himself  been  a 
witness  of  one  of  those  scenes  between  the  bish- 
op and  his  wife  in  which  the  poor  bishop  had 
been  so  cruelly  misused.  But  to  Mr.  Crawley 
the  thing  wliich  he  himself  had  seen  under  such 
circumstances  was  as  sacred  as  tliough  it  had 
come  to  him  under  the  seal  of  confession.  In 
speaking  of  the  bishop  and  Mrs.  Proudie— nay, 
as  far  as'was  possible  in  thinking  of  them — he 
was  bound  to  speak  and  to  think  as  though  he 
had  not  witnessed  that  scene  in  the  palace  study. 

"I  don't  su]ipose  that  there  is  much  doubt 
about  her  real  character,"  said  Robarts.  "But 
you  and  I  need  not  discuss  that." 


308 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"  By  no  means.  Such  discussion  would  be 
both  useless  and  unseemly." 

"And  just  at  jjrcsent  there  is  something  else 
that  I  specially  want  to  say  to  you.  Indeed,  I 
went  to  Silverbridpc  on  the  same  subject  yester- 
day, and  have  come  here  expressly  to  have  a 
little  conversation  with  you." 

"  If  it  be  about  atlairs  of  mine,  Mr.  Robarts, 
I  am  indeed  troubled  in  spirit  that  so  great  la- 
bor should  have  fallen  upon  you." 

"Never  mind  my  labor.  Indeed  your  say- 
ing tliat  is  a  nuisance  to  me,  because  I  hoped 
that  by  tiiis  time  you  would  have  understood 
that  I  regard  you  as  a  friend,  and  that  I  think 
nothing  any  trouble  tliat  I  do  for  a  friend. 
Your  position  just  now  is  so  peculiar  that  it  re- 
quires a  great  deal  of  care." 

"  No  care  can  be  of  any  avail  to  me." 

"  There  I  disagree  with  you.  You  must  ex- 
cuse me,  but  I  do ;  and  so  does  Dr.  Tempest. 
We  tliink  that  you  have  been  a  little  too  much 
in  a  hurry  since  he  communicated  to  you  tiie  re- 
sult of  our  first  meeting." 

"As  how,  Sir?" 

"It  is,  perhaps,  hardly  worth  while  for  us  to 
go  into  the  whole  question ;  but  tliat  man, 
Thumblc,  must  not  come  here  on  next  Sunday." 

"  I  can  not  say,  Mr.  Robarts,  that  the  Rever- 
end Mr.  Thumble  has  recommended  himself  to 
me  strongly  either  by  his  outward  symbols  of 
manhood  or  by  such  manifestations  of  his  inward 
mental  gifts  as  I  have  succeeded  in  obtaining. 
But  my  knowledge  of  him  has  been  so  slight, 
and  has  been  acquired  in  a  manner  so  likely  to 
bias  me  prejudicially  against  him,  that  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  my  opinion  should  go  for  no- 
thing. It  is,  however,  the  fact  that  the  bishop 
has  nominated  him  to  this  duty ;  and  that,  as  I 
have  myself  simply  notified  my  desire  to  be  re- 
lieved from  the  care  of  the  parish,  on  account 
of  certain  unfitness  of  my  own,  I  am  the  last 
man  who  should  interfere  with  the  bisiiop  in 
the  choice  of  miy  temporary  successor." 

"It  was  her  choice,  not  his." 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Robarts,  but  I  can  not  al- 
low that  assertion  to  pass  unquestioned.  I 
must  say  that  I  have  adequate  cause  for  believ- 
ing that  he  came  here  by  his  lordshiji's  author- 
ity." 

"No  doubt  he  did.  Will  youjust  listen  to  me 
for  a  moment  ?  Ever  since  this  unfortunate  af- 
fair of  the  check  became  known,  Mrs.  Proudie 
has  been  anxious  to  get  you  out  of  this  parish. 
She  was  a  violent  woman,  and  chose  to  take 
this  matter  up  violently.  Pray  hear  me  out  be- 
fore you  interrui)t  me.  There  would  have  been 
no  commission  at  all  but  for  her." 

"The  commission  is  right  and  proper  and 
just,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  who  could  not  keep 
himself  silent. 

"Very  well.  Let  it  be  so.  But  Mr.  Thum- 
ble's  coming  over  here  is  not  proper  or  right ; 
and  you  may  be  sure  the  bishop  does  not  wish 
it." 

■'Let  him  send  any  other  clergyman  whom 
he  may  think  more  fitting,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 


"  But  we  do  not  want  him  to  send  any  body." 

"Somebody  must  be  sent,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"No,  not  so.  Let  me  go  over  and  see 
Thumble  and  Snapper — Snajiper,  you  know,  is 
the  domestic  chaplain  ;  and  ail  that  you  need 
do  is  to  go  on  with  your  services  on  Sunday.  If 
necessary,  I  will  see  the  bishoj).  I  think  you 
'may  be  sure  that  I  can  manage  it.  If  not,  I 
will  come  back  to  you."  Mr.  Robarts  paused 
for  an  answer,  but  it  seemed  for  a  while  that 
all  Mr.  Crawley's  impatient  desire  to  speak  was 
over.  He  walked  on  silently  along  the  lane  by 
his  visitor's  side,  and  wlien,  after  some  five  or 
six  minutes,  Robarts  stood  still  in  the  road,  Mr. 
Crawley  even  then  said  notliing.  "It  can  not 
be  but  that  you  should  be  anxious  to  keep  the 
income  of  the  parisli  for  your  wife  and  children," 
said  Mark  Robarts. 

"Of  course  I  am  anxious  for  my  wife  and 
children,"  Oawley  answered. 

"  Then  let  me  do  as  I  say.  Why  should  you 
throw  away  a  chance,  even  if  it  be  a  bad  one? 
But  here  the  chance  is  all  in  your  favor.  Let 
me  manage  it  for  you  at  Barchestcr." 

"Of  course  I  am  anxious  for  my  wife  and 
children,"  said  Crawley,  repeating  his  words; 
"how  anxious,  I  fancy  no  man  can  conceive 
who  has  not  been  near  enough  to  absolute  want 
to  know  how  terrible  is  its  approach  when  it 
threatens  those  who  are  weak  and  who  are  very 
dear!  But,  Mr.  Robarts,  you  spoke  just  now 
of  the  chance  of  the  thing — the  chance  of  your 
arranging  on  my  behalf  that  I  should  for  a  while 
longer  be  left  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  freehold 
of  my  parish.  It  seemeth  to  me  that  tliere 
should  be  no  chance  on  such  a  subject ;  that  in 
the  adjustment  of  so  momentous  a  matter  there 
should  be  a  consideration  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  no  consideration  of  aught  beside.  I  ha^e 
been  growing  to  feel,  for  some  weeks  past,  that 
circumstances — whether  through  my  own  fixult 
or  not  is  an  outside  question  as  to  whicli  I  will 
not  further  delay  you  by  offering  even  an  opin- 
ion— tiiat  unfortunate  circumstances  have  made 
mc  unfit  to  remain  here  as  guardian  of  the  souls 
of  the  pcoi)le  of  this  parish.  Then  there  came 
to  mc  the  letter  from  Dr.  Tempest — for  which  I 
am  greatly  beholden  to  him — -strengthening  me 
altogether  in  this  view.  What  could  I  do  then, 
Mr.  Robarts?  Could  I  allow  myself  to  think 
of  my  wife  and  my  children  when  such  a  ques- 
tion as  that  was  before  me  for  self-discussion?" 

"I  would — certainly,"  said  Robarts. 

"  No,  Sir !  Excuse  the  bluntness  of  my  con- 
tradiction, but  I  feci  assured  that  in  such  emer- 
gency you  would  look  solely  to  duty^ — as  by  God's 
helj),  I  will  endeavor  to  do.  Mr.  Robarts,  there 
are  many  of  us  who  in  many  things  are  mucli 
worse  tlian  we  believe  ourselves  to  be.  But  in 
other  matters,  and  perhaps  of  larger  moment, 
we  can  rise  to  ideas  of  duty  as  tlie  need  for  such 
ideas  comes  u])on  ns.  I  say  not  this  at  all  as 
praising  m3'self.  I  speak  of  men  as  I  believe 
that  they  will  be  found  to  be— of  yourself,  of 
myself,  and  of  others  who  strive  to  live  with 
clean  hands  and  a  clear  conscience.     I  do  not 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


309 


for  ji  moment  tliink  that  you  would  retain  your 
benefice  at  Framley  if  there  had  come  upon  you, 
after  much  thouglit,  an  assured  conviction  that 
you  could  not  retain  it  without  grievous  injury 
to  the  souls  of  others  and  grievous  sin  to  your 
own.  Wife  and  children,  dear  as  they  are  to 
you  and  to  me — as  dear  to  me  as  to  you — fade 
from  the  sight  when  the  time  comes  for  judg- 
ment on  such  a  matter  as  that!"  They  were 
standing  quite  still  now,  facing  each  other,  and 
Crawley,  as  he  spoke  with  a  low  voice,  looked 
straight  into  his  friend's  eyes,  and  kept  his  hand 
firmly  fixed  on  his  friend's  arm. 

"I  can  not  interfere  further,"  said  Robarts. 

"No — you  can  not  interfere  further."  Ro- 
barts, when  he  told  the  story  of  the  interview  to 
his  wife  that  evening,  declared  that  he  had  never 
heard  a  voice  so  plaintively  touching  as  was  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Crawley  when  he  uttered  those  last 
words. 

They  returned  back  to  the  servant  and  the 
house  almost  without  a  word,  and  Robarts 
mounted  without  offering  to  see  Mrs.  Crawley. 
Nor  did  Mr.  Crawley  ask  him  to  do  so.  It  was 
better  now  that  Robarts  should  go.  "May 
God  send  you  through  all  your  troubles,"  said 
Mr.  Robarts. 

"Mr.  Robarts,  I  thank  you  warmly  for  your 
friendship,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  And  then  they 
parted.  In  about  half  an  hour  Mr.  Crawley  re- 
turned to  the  house.  "Now  for  Pindar,  Jane," 
he  said,  seating  himself  at  his  old  desk 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

MR.  Crawley's  last  appearance  in  his  own 

PULPIT. 

No  word  or  message  from  Mr.  Crawley  reach- 
ed Barchester  throughout  the  week,  and  on  the 
Sunday  morning  Mr.  Thumble  was  under  a  pos- 
itive engagement  to  go  out  to  Hogglcstock  and 
perform  the  services  of  the  church.  Dr.  Tem- 
pest had  been  quite  right  in  saying  that  Mr.^ 
Thumble  would  be  awed  by  the  death  of  his  ])a- 
troness.  Such  was  altogether  the  case,  and  he 
was  very  anxious  to  escape  from  the  task  he  had 
undertaken  at  her  instance,  if  it  were  possible. 
In  the  first  place,  he  had  never  been  a  favorite 
witli  the  bishop  himself,  and  had  now,  therefore, 
nothing  to  expect  in  the  diocese.  The  crusts 
from  bits  of  loaves  and  the  morsels  of  bi'oken 
fishes  wliich  had  come  in  his  way  had  all  come 
from  the  bounty  of  Mrs.  Proudie.  And  then, 
as  regarded  this  special  Hogglcstock  job,  how 
Was  ho  to  get  paid  for  it?  Whence,  indeed, 
was  he  to  seek  repayment  for  the  actual  money 
which  he  would  be  out  of  pocket  in  finding  his 
way  to  Hogglcstock  and  back  again  ?  But  he 
copld  not  get  to  speak  to  the  bishop,  nor  could 
he  induce  any  one  who  had  access  to  his  lord- 
ship to  touch  upon  the  subject.  Mr.  Snapper 
avoided  him  as  much  as  possible  ;  and  Mr. 
Snapper,  when  he  was  cauglit  and  interrogated, 
declared  that  he  regarded  the  matter  as  settled. 


Nothing  could  be  in  worse  taste,  Mr.  Snapper 
thought,  than  to  undo,  immediately  after  the 
poor  lady's  death,  work  in  the  diocese  which 
had  been  arranged  and  done  by  her.  Mr. 
Snapper  expressed  his  opinion  that  Mr.  Thum- 
ble was  bound  to  go  out  to  Hogglcstock ;  and, 
when  Mr.  Tiiumble  declared  petulantly  that  he 
would  not  stir  a  step  out  of  Barchester,  Mr. 
Snapper  protested  that  Mr.  Thumble  would 
have  to  answer  for  it  in  this  world  and  in  the 
next  if  there  were  no  services  at  Hogglcstock 
on  that  Sunday.  On  the  Saturday  evening  Mr. 
Thumble  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  see  the 
bishop,  but  was  told  by  Mrs.  Draper  that  the 
bishop  had  positively  declined  to  see  him.  The 
bishop  himself  probably  felt  unwilling  to  inter- 
fere with  his  wife's  doings  so  soon  after  her 
death.  So  Mr.  Thumble,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
went  across  to  "The  Dragon  of  Wantly, "  and 
ordered  a  gig,  resolving  that  the  bill  should  be 
sent  in  to  the  palace.  He  was  not  going  to 
trust  himself  again  upon  the  bishop's  cob  ! 

Up  to  Saturday  evening  Mr.  Crawley  did  the 
work  of  his  parish,  and  on  the  Saturday  evening 
he  made  an  address  to  his  parishioners  from  his 
pulpit.  He  had  given  notice  among  the  brick- 
makers  and  laborers  that  he  wished  to  say  a  few 
words  to  them  in  the  school-room  ;  but  the  farm- 
ers also  heard  of  this,  and  came  with  their  wives 
and  daughters,  and  all  the  brickmakers  came, 
and  most  of  the  laborers  were  there,  so  that 
tliere  was  no  room  for  them  in  the  school-house. 
The  congregation  was  much  larger  than  was 
customary  even  in  the  church.  "They  will 
come,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "to  hear  a  ruined 
man  declare  his  own  ruin,  but  they  will  not 
come  to  liear  the  word  of  God."  When  it  was 
found  that  the  persons  assembled  were  too 
many  for  the  school-room  the  meeting  was  ad- 
journed to  the  church,  and  Mr.  Crawley  was 
forced  to  get  into  his  pulpit.  He  said  a  short 
prayer,  and  then  he  began  his  story. 

His  story  as  he  told  it  then  shall  not  be  re- 
peated now,  as  the  same  story  has  been  told  ton 
often  already  in  these  pages.  Surely  it  was  a 
singular  story  for  a  parish  clergyman  to  tell  of 
himself  in  so  solemn  a  manner.  That  he  had 
applied  the  check  to  his  own  purposes,  and  was 
unable  to  account  for  the  possession  of  it,  was 
certain.  He  did  not  know  when  or  how  he  had 
got  it.  Speaking  to  them  then  in  God's  house 
he  told  them  that.  He  was  to  be  tried  by  a 
jury,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  tell  the  jury 
the  same.  He  would  not  expect  the  jury  to 
believe  him.  The  jury  would,  of  course,  believe 
only  that  which  was  proved  to  them.  But  he 
did  expect  his  old  friends  at  Hogglcstock,  who 
had  known  him  so  long,  to  take  his  word  as 
true.  That  there  was  no  sufficient  excuse  for 
his  conduct,  even  in  his  own  sight,  this,  his  vol- 
untary resignation  of  his  parish,  was,  he  said, 
sufficient  evidence.  Then  he  explained  to  them, 
as  clearly  as  he  was  able,  what  the  bishop  had 
done,  wliat  the  commission  had  done,  and  what 
he  had  done  himself.  That  he  spoke  no  word 
of  Mrs.  Proudie  to  that  audience  need  hardly  bo 


310 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


mentioned  here.  "And  now,  dearest  friends, 
I  leave  you,"  he  said,  with  that  weighty  solem- 
nity which  was  so  peculiar  to  the  man,  and 
which  he  was  able  to  make  singularly  impress- 
ive even  on  such  a  congregation  as  that  of  Hog- 
glcstock,  "and  I  trust  that  the  heavy  but  pleas- 
ing burden  of  the  charge  wliich  I  have  had  over 
you  may  fall  into  hands  better  fitted  than  mine 
have  been  for  sucli  work.  I  have  always  known 
my  own  unfitness,  by  reason  of  the  worldly  cares 
with  which  I  have  been  laden.  Poverty  makes 
the  spirit  poor,  and  the  hands  weak,  and  the 
heart  sore — and  too  often  makes  the  conscience 
dull.  May.  the  latter  never  be  the  case  witli 
any  of  you."  Then  he  nttered  another  short 
I)rayer,  and,  stepping  down  from  the  pulpit, 
walked  out  of  the  church,  with  his  weeping 
wife  hanging  on  his  arm,  and  his  daughter  fol- 
lowing them,  almost  dissolved  in  tears.  He 
never  again  entered  that  church  as  the  pastor 
of  the  congregation. 

There  was  an  old  lame  man  from  Hoggle 
End  leaning  on  his  stick  near  the  door  as  Mr. 
Crawley  went  out,  and  with  him  was  his  old 
lame  wife.  "He'll  pull  through  yet,"  said  the 
old  man  to  his  wife ;  "  you'll  see  else.  He'll 
pull  tlirough  because  he's  so  dogged.  It's 
dogged  as  does  it." 

On  that  night  the  position  of  the  members  of 
Mr.  Crawley's  household  seemed  to  have  been 
changed.  There  was  something  almost  of  ela- 
tion in  his  mode  of  speaking,  and  he  said  soft 
loving  words,  striving  to  comfort  his  wife.  She, 
on  the  other  hand,  could  say  nothing  to  com- 
fort him.  She  had  been  averse  to  the  step  he 
was  taking,  but  had  been  unable  to  press  her 
objection  in  opposition  to  his  great  argument  as 
to  duty.  Since  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  that 
strain  which  he  had  used  with  Kobarts  she  also 
had  felt  that  she  must  be  silent.  But  she  could 
not  even  feign  to  feel  the  pride  which  comes 
from  the  performance  of  a  duty.  "What  will 
he  do  when  he  comes  out?"  she  said  to  her 
daughter.  The  coming  out  spoken  of  by  her 
was  the  coming  out  of  prison.  It  was  natural 
enough  that  she  should  feel  no  elation. 

The  breakfast  on  Sunday  morning  was  to  her, 
perhaps,  the  saddest  scene  of  her  life.  They 
sat  down,  the  three  together,  at  the  usual  hour 
— nine  o'clock — but  the  morning  had  not  been 
passed  as  was  customary  on  Sundays.  It  had 
been  Mr.  Crawley's  practice  to  go  into  the  school 
from  eight  to  nine  ;  but  on  this  Sunday  he  felt, 
as  he  told  his  wife,  that  his  presence  would  be 
an  intrusion  there.  But  he  requested  Jane  to 
go  and  perform  her  usual  task.  ' '  If  Mr.  Thum- 
ble  sliould  come,"  he  said  to  her,  "be  submiss- 
ive to  him  in  all  things."  Then  he  stood  at  his 
door,  watching  to  see  at  what  hour  Mr.  Thum- 
ble  would  reach  the  school.  But  Mr.  Thumble 
did  not  attend  the  school  on  that  morning. 
"And  yet  he  was  very  express  to  me  in  his  de- 
sire that  I  would  not  myself  meddle  with  the 
duties,"  said  Mr.  Crawley  to  his  wife  as  he  stood 
at  the  door — "unnecessarily  urgent,  as  I  must 
say  I  thought  at  the  time."     If  Mrs.  Crawley 


could  have  spoken  out  her  thoughts  about  Mr. 
Thumble  at  that  moment,  her  words  would,  I 
think,  have  surprised  her  husband. 

At  breakfast  there  was  hardly  a  word  spoken. 
Mr.  Crawley  took  his  crust  and  ate  it  mourn- 
fully— almost  ostentatiously.  Jane  tried  and 
failed,  and  tried  to  hide  her  failure,  failing  in 
that  also.  Mrs.  Crawley  made  no  attempt. 
Slie  sat  behind  her  old  tea-pot,  with  her  hands 
clasped  and  her  eyes  fixed.  It  was  as  though 
some  last  day  had  come  upon  her — this,  the 
first  Sunday  of  her  husband's  degradation. 
"Mary,"  he  said  to  her,  "wliy  do  you  not 
eat?" 

"I  can  not,"  she  replied,  speaking  not  in  a 
whisper,  but  in  words  which  would  hardly  get 
themselves  articulated.  "I  can  not.  Do  not 
ask  me." 

"For  the  honor  of  the  Lord  you  will  want 
the  strength  Mhich  bread  alone  can  give  you," 
he  said,  intimating  to  her  that  he  wished  her  to 
attend  the  service. 

' '  Do  not  ask  me  to  be  there,  Josiah.  I  can 
not.     It  is  too  much  for  me." 

"  Nay;  I  will  not  press  it,"  he  said.  "I  can 
go  alone."  He  uttered  no  word  expressive  of 
a  wish  that  his  daughter  should  attend  the 
church ;  but  when  the  moment  came  Jane  ac- 
companied him.  "What  shall  I  do,  mamma," 
she  said,  "if  I  find  I  can  not  bear  it?"  "Try 
to  bear  it,"  the  mother  said.  "  Try,  for  his  sake. 
You  are  stronger  now  than  I  am." 

The  tinkle  of  the  church  bell  was  heard  at  the 
usual  time,  and  Mr.  Crawley,  hat  in  hand,  stood 
ready  to  go  forth.  He  had  heard  nothing  of 
Mr.  Tliuuible,  but  had  made  np  his  mind  that 
Mr.  Thumble  would  not  trouble  him.  He  had 
taken  the  precaution  to  request  his  church-war- 
den to  be  early  at  the  church,  so  that  Mr.  Thum- 
ble might  encounter  no  difiiculty.  The  church 
was  very  near  to  the  house,  and  any  vehicle  ar- 
riving might  have  been  seen  had  Mr.  Crawley 
watched  closely.  But  no  one  had  cared  to 
watch  Mr.  Thumble's  arrival  at  the  church. 
He  did  not  doubt  that  Mr.  Thumble  would  bo 
at  the  church.  With  reference  to  the  school 
he  had  had  some  doubt. 

But  just  as  he  was  about  to  start  he  heard  the 
clatter  of  a  gig.  Up  came  Mr.  Thumble  to  the 
door  of  the  parsonage,  and  having  come  down 
.from  his  gig  was  about  to  enter  the  house  as 
thougli  it  were  his  own.  Mr.  Crawley  greeted 
him  in  the  pathway,  I'aising  his  hat  from  his 
head,  and  expressing  a  wish  that  Mr.  Thumble 
might  not  feel  himself  fatigued  with  his  drive. 
"I  will  not  ask  you  into  my  poor  house,"  he 
said,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  pathway ; 
"for  that  my  wife  is  ill." 

"  Nothing  catching,  I  hope  ?"  said  Mr. 
Thumble. 

"  Her  malady  is  of  the  spirit  rather  than  of 
the  flesh,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  "  Shall  we  go  on 
to  the  church  ?" 

' '  Certainly — by  all  means.  How  about  the 
surplice?" 

"  You  will  find,  I  trust,  that  the  church-war- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


311 


den  has  every  thing  in  readiness.  I  have  no- 
tified to  him  expressly  your  coming,  with  the 
purport  that  it  may  be  so." 

"  You'll  take  a  part  in  the  service,  I  suppose?" 
said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"No  part — no  part  whatever,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley,  standing  still  for  a  moment  as  he 
spoke,  and  showing  plainly  by  the  tone  of  his 
voice  how  dismayed  he  was,  how  indignant  he 
had  been  made,  by  so  indecent  a  proposition. 
Was  he  giving  up  his  pulpit  to  a  stranger  for 
any  reason  less  cogent  than  one  which  made  it 
absolutely  imperative  on  him  to  be  silent  in  that 
church  Avhich  had  so  long  been  his  own  ? 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Thumble, 
"  Only  it's  rather  hard  lines  to  have  to  do  it  all 
myself  after  coming  all  the  way  from  Barches- 
ter  this  morning."  To  this  Mr.  Crawley  con- 
descended to  make  no  reply  whatever. 

In  the  porch  of  the  church,  which  was  the 
only  entrance,  Mr.  Crawley  introduced  Mr. 
Thumble  to  the  church-warden,  simply  by  a 
wave  of  the  hand,  and  then  passed  on  with  his 
daughter  to  a  seat  which  opened  upon  the  aisle. 
Jane  was  going  on  to  that  which  she  had  hith- 
erto always  occupied  with  her  mother  in  the  lit- 
tle chancel ;  but  Mr.  Crawley  would  not  allow 
this.  Neither  to  him  nor  to  any  of  his  family 
was  there  attached  any  longer  the  privilege  of 
using  the  chancel  of  the  church  of  Hogglestock. 

Mr.  Thumble  scrambled  into  the  reading-desk 
some  ten  minutes  after  the  proper,  time,  and 
went  through  the  morning  service  under  what 
must  be  admitted  to  be  serious  difficulties. 
There  were  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Crawley  fixed  upon^ 
him  throughout  the  work,  and  a  feeling  ])cr- 
vaded  liim  that  every  bod}^  there  regarded  him 
as  an  intruder.  At  first  this  was  so  strong  upon 
him  that  Mr.  Crawley  pitied  him,  and  would 
have  encouraged  him  had  it  been  possible.  But 
as  the  work  progressed,  and  as  custom  and  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice  emboldened  him,  there 
came  to  the  man  some  touches  of  the  arrogance 
which  so  generally  accompanies  cowardice,  and 
Mr.  Crawley's  acute  ear  detected  the  moment 
when  it  was  so.  An  observer  might  have  seen 
4hat  the  motion  of  his  hands  was  altered  as  they 
were  lifted  in  prayer.  Though  he  was  praying, 
even  in  prayer  he  could  not  forget  the  man  who 
was  occupying  his  desk. 

Then  came  the  sermon,  preached  very  often 
before,  lasting  exactly  half  an  hour,  and  then 
Mr.  Thumble's  work  was  done.  Itinerant  cler- 
gymen, who  preach  now  here  and  now  there,  as 
it  bad  been  the  lot  of  Mr.  Thumble  to  do,  have 
at  any  rate  this  relief — that  tliey  can  preach 
their  sermons  often.  From  the  communion- 
table Mr.  Thumble  had  stated  that,  in  the  pres- 
ent peculiar  circumstances  of  the  parish,  there 
would  be  no  second  service  at  Hogglestock  for 
the  present ;  and  this  was  all  he  said  or  did  pe- 
culiar to  the  occasion.  The  moment  the  service 
was  over  he  got  into  his  gig,  and  was  driven  back 
to  Barchester. 

"Mamma,"  said  Jane,  as  they  sat  at  their 
dinner,  "such  a  sermon  I  am  sure  was  never 


heard  in  Hogglestock  before.  Indeed,  you  can 
hardly  call  it  a  sermon.  It  was  downright  non- 
sense." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  energetically, 
"keep  your  criticisms  for  matters  that  are  pro- 
fane ;  then,  though  they  be  childish  and  silly, 
they  may  at  least  be  innocent.  Be  critical  on 
Euripides,  if  you  must  be  critical."  But  when 
Jane  kissed  her  father  after  dinner,  she,  know- 
ing his  humor  well,  felt  assured  that  her  remarks 
had  not  been  taken  altogether  in  ill  part. 

Mr.  Thumble  was  neither  seen  nor  heard  of 
again  in  the  parish  during  the  entire  week. 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

MRS.   ARABIN    IS    CAUGHT. 

One  morning  about  the  middle  of  April  Mr. 
Toogood  received  a  telegram  from  Venice  wliii  h 
caused  him  instantly  to  leave  his  business  in 
Bedford  Row  and  take  the  first  train  for  Silver- 
bridge.  "It  seems  to  me  that  this  job  will  be 
a  deal  of  time  and  very  little  money,"  said  his 
jiartner  to  him,  when  Toogood  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment  was  making  arrangements  for  his 
sudden  departure  and  uncertain  period  of  ab- 
sence. "That's  about  it,"  said  Toogood.  "A 
deal  of  time,  some  expense,  and  no  returns. 
It's  not  the  kind  of  business  a  man  can  live 
npon  ;  is  it?"  The  partner  growled,  and  Too- 
good  went.  But  as  we  must  go  with  Mr.  Too- 
good  down  to  Silverbridge,  and  as  we  can  not 
make  the  journey  in  this  chapter,  we  will  just 
indicate  his  departure,  and  then  go  back  to  John 
Eames,  who,  as  will  be  remembered,  was  just 
starting  for  Florence  .when  we  last  saw  him. 

Our  dear  old  friend  Johnny  had  been  rather 
proud  of  himself  as  he  started  from  London. 
He  had  gotten  an  absolute  victory  over  Sir  R  f- 
fle  Buffle,  and  that  alone  was  gratifying  to  his 
feelings.  He  liked  the  excitement  of  a  joui-- 
ney,  and  especially  of  a  journey  to  Italy;  and 
the  importance  of  the  cause  of  his  journey  was 
satisfactory  to  him.  But  above  all  things  he 
was  delighted  at  having  found  that  Lily  Dale 
was  ])leased  at  his  going.  He  had  seen  clear- 
ly that  she  was  much  pleased,  and  that  she 
made  something  of  a  hero  of  him  because  of 
his  alacrity  in  the  cause  of  his  cousin.  He 
had  partially  understood — had  understood  in  a 
dim  sort  of  way — that  his  want  of  favor  in  Lily's 
eyes  had  come  from  some  deficiency  of  his  own 
in  this  respect.  She  had  not  found  him  to  be  a 
hero.  She  had  known  him  first  as  a  boy,  with 
boyish  belongings  around  him,  and  she  had  seen 
him  from  time  to  time  as  he  became  a  man,  al- 
most with  too  much  intimacy  for  the  creation 
of  that  love  with  which  he  wished  to  fill  her 
heart.  His  rival  had  come  before  her  eyes  for 
the  first  time  with  all  the  glories  of  Pall  Mall 
heroism  about  him,  and  Lily  in  her  weakness 
had  been  conquered  by  them.  Since  that  she 
had  learned  how  weak  she  had  been — how  silly, 
how  childish,  she  would  say  to  herself  when  she 


312 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


allowed  her  iiicniory  to  go  back  to  tlic  details 
of  her  own  story ;  but  not  the  less  on  tliat  ac- 
count did  slie  feel  the  want  of  somctliing  heroic 
in  a  man  before  slie  could  teach  herself  to  look 
u])on  him  as  more  worthy  of  her  regard  than 
other  men.  Slic  had  still  unconsciously  ho])cd 
in  regard  to  Crosbie,  but  now  that  liopc  had 
been  tlisi)ellcd  as  unconsciously,  simply  by  liis 
appearance.  There  had  been  moments  in 
wliich  John  Eames  had  almost  risen  to  the  nec- 
essary point— had  almost  made  good  his  foot- 
ing on  the  top  of  some  moderate,  but  still  suf- 
ficient mountiiin.  But  there  liad  still  been  a 
succession  of  little  tunjl)les — unfortunate  slips 
for  which  he  himself  should  not  always  have 
been  held  responsible  ;  and  he  had  never  quite 
stood  upright  on  his  pinnacle,  visible  to  Lily's 
eyes  as  being  really  excelsior.  Of  all  this  John 
Eames  himself  had  an  inkling  which  had  often 
made  him  very  uncomfortable.  What  tlie  mis- 
chief was  it  she  wanted  of  him  ;  and  what  was 
he  to  do?  The  days  for  plucking  glory  from 
the  nettle  danger  were  clean  gone  by.  He  was 
well  dressed.  He  knew  a  good  many  of  the 
right  sort  of  people.  He  was  not  in  debt.  He 
had  saved  an  old  nobleman's  life  once  upon  a 
time,  and  had  been  a  good  deal  talked  about  on 
that  score.  He  had  even  thrashed  the  man  who 
had  ill-treated  her.  His  constancy  had  been 
as  the  constancy  of  a  Jacob !  What  was  it  that 
she  wanted  of  him?  But  in  a  certain  way  he 
did  know  what  was  wanted ;  and  now,  as  he 
started  for  Florence,  intending  to  stop  nowhere 
till  he  reached  that  city,  he  hoped  that  by  this 
chivalrous  journey  he  might  even  yet  achieve 
the  tiling  necessary. 

But  on  reaching  Paris  he  heard  tidings  of 
Mrs.  Arabin  which  induced  him  to  change  his 
plans  and  make  for  Venice  instead  of  for  Flor- 
ence. A  banker  at  Paris,  to  whom  he  brought 
a  letter,  told  him  that  Mrs.  Arabin  would  now 
be  found  at  Venice.  This  did  not  perplex  him 
at  all.  It  would  have  been  delightful  to  see 
Flor^nice,  but  was  more  delightful  still  to  see 
Venice.  His  journey  was  the  same  as  far  as 
Turin  ;  but  from  Turin  he  proceeded  through 
Milan  to  Venice,  instead  of  going  by  Bologna 
to  Florence.  He  had  fortunately  come  armed 
with  an  Austrian  passport — as  was  necessary  in 
those  by-gone  days  of  Vcnetia's  thralldom.  He 
was  almost  proud  of  himself,  as  though  he  had 
done  something  great,  when  he  tumbled  in  to 
his  inn  at  Venice  without  having  been  in  a  bed 
since  he  left  London. 

But  he  was  barely  allowed  to  swim  in  a  gon- 
dola, for  on  reaching  Venice  he  found  that  Mrs. 
Arabin  had  gone  back  to  Florence.  He  had 
been  directed  to  the  hotel  which  Mrs.  Arabin 
had  used,  and  was  there  told  that  she  had  start- 
ed the  day  before.  She  had  received  some  let- 
ter, from  her  husband  as  the  landlord  thought, 
and  had  done  so.  That  was  all  the  landlord 
knew.  Johnny  was  vexed,  but  became  a  little 
prouder  than  before  as  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty 
to  go  on  to  Florence  before  he  went  to  bed. 
There  would  be  another  night  in  a  railway  car- 


riage, but  he  would  live  ihrough  it.  There  was 
just  time  to  have  a  tub  and  a  breakfast,  to 
swim  in  a  gondola,  to  look  at  the  outside  of 
the  Doge's  palace,  and  to  walk  up  and  down 
tlie  jiiazza  before  he  started  again.  It  was 
hard  work,  but  I  think  he  would  have  been 
idcascd  had  he  heard  that  Mrs.  Arabin  had  re- 
treated from  Florence  to  Rome.  Had  such 
been  the  case,  he  would  have  folded  his  cloifek 
around  him,  and  have  gone  on — regardless  of 
brigands  —  thinking  of  Lilj-,  and  wondering 
whether  any  body  else  had  ever  done  so  much  be- 
fore without  going  to  bed.  As  it  was,  he  found 
that  JNIrs.  Arabin  was  at  the  hotel  in  Florence 
— still  in  bed,  as  he  had  arrived  early  in  the 
morning.  So  he  had  another  tub,  another 
breakfast,  and  sent  np  his  card.  "Mr.  John 
Eames" — and  across  the  top  of  it  he  wrote, 
"has  come  from  England  about  Mr.  Crawley." 
Then  he  threw  himself  on  to  a  sofa  in  the  hotel 
reading-room,  and  went  fast  to  sleep. 

John  had  found  an  opportunity  of  talking  to 
a  young  lady  in  the  breakfast-room,  and  had 
told  her  of  his  deeds.  "  I  only  left  London  on 
Tuesday  night,  and  I  have  come  here  taking 
Venice  on  the  road." 

"Then  you  have  traveled  fast,"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"  I  haven't  seen  a  bed,  of  course,"  said 
John. 

The  young  lady  immediately  afterward  told 
her  father.  "I  sujjpose  he  must  be  one  of 
those  Foreign  Office  messengers,"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"Any  thing  but  that,"  said  the  gentleman. 
"People  never  talk  about  their  own  trades. 
He's  probably  a  clerk  with  a  fortnight's  leave 
of  aljsencc,  seeing  how  many  towns  he  can  do 
in  the  time.  It's  the  usual  way  of  traveling 
nowadays.  When  I  was  young,  and  there 
were  no  railways,  I  remember  going  from  Paris 
to  Vienna  without  sleeping."  Luckily  for  his 
present  happiness  John  did  not  hear  this. 

He  was  still  fast  asleep  when  a  servant  came 
to  him  from  Mrs.  Arabin  to  say  that  she  would 
fsee  him  at  once.  "Yes,  yes;  I'm  quite  ready 
to  go  on,"  said  Johnny,  jumping  up,  and  think- 
ing of  the  journey  to  Rome.  But  there  was  no 
journey  to  Rome  before  him.  Mrs.  Arabin 
was  almost  in  the  next  room,  and  there  he 
found  lier. 

The  reader  will  understand  that  they  had 
never  met  before,  and  hitherto  knew  nothing  of 
each  other.  Mrs.  Arabin  had  never  heard  the 
name  of  John  Eames  till  John's  card  was  put 
into  her  hands,  and  would  not  have  known  his 
business  with  her  had  he  not  written  those  few 
words  upon  it.  "You  have  come  about  Mr. 
Crawley?"  she  said  to  him,  eagerly.  "I  have 
heard  from  my  father  that  somebody  was  com- 
ing." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Arabin;  as  hard  as  I  could  trav- 
el.    I  had  expected  to  find  you  at  Venice." 

"  Have  you  been  at  Venice?" 

"  I  have  just  arrived  from  Venice.  They 
told  me  at  Paris  I  should  find  you  there.    How- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


813- 


ever,  that  docs  not  matter  as  I  have  found  you 
>       here.     I  wonder  whether  you  can  help  us  ?" 
I  "Do  you  know  Mr.  Crawley?     Are  you  a 

friend  of  liis  ?" 

"I  never  saw  him  in  my  life ;  but  he  married 
I      my  cousin." 

"I  gave  him  the  check,  you  know,"  said  Mrs< 
Arabiu. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Eames,  literally  almost 
knocked  backward  by  the  easiness  of  tlie  words 
wliich  contained  a  solution  for  so  terrible  a  dif- 
ficulty. The  Crawley  case  had  assumed  sucli 
magnitude,  and  the  troubles  of  the  Crawley 
family  had  been  so  terrible,  that  it  seemed  to 
him  to  be  almost  sacrilegious  that  words  so 
simply  uttered  should  suffice  to  cure  every 
thing.  lie  had  hardly  hoped — had  at  least 
barely  hoped — that  JMrs.  Arabiu  might  be  able 
to  suggest  something  which  would  put  them  all 
on  a  track  toward  discovery  of  the  truth.  But 
he  found  that  she  had  the  clew  in  her  hand, 
and  that  the  clew  was  one  which  required  no 
further  delicacy  of  investigation.  There  would 
be  nothing  more  to  unravel ;  no  journey  to  Je- 
rusalem would  be  necessary ! 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin,  "I  gave  it  to  liim. 
They  have  been  writing  to  my  husband  about 
it,  and  never  wrote  to  me  ;  and  till  I  received  iV 
letter  about  it  from  my  father,  and  another  froiri 
my  sister  at  Venice  the  day  before  yesterday,  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  particulars  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
trouble." 

"Had  you  not  heard  that  he  had  been  taken 
before  the  magistrates  ?" 

"No;  not  so  much  even  as  that.  I  had  seen 
in  Galignani  something  about  a  clergyman,  but 
I  did  not  know  what  clergyman ;  and  I  heard 
that  there  was  something  wrong  about  Mr. 
Crawley's  money,  but  tliere  has  always  been 
something  wrong  about  money  with  poor  Mr. 
Crawley ;  and  as  I  knew  that  my  husband  had 
been  written  to  also,  I  did  not  interfere  further 
than  to  ask  the  particulars.  My  letters  have 
followed  me  about,  and  I  only  learned  at  Ven- 
ice, just  before  I  came  here,  what  was  the  na- 
ture of  the  case." 

"And  did  you  do  any  thing?" 

' '  I  telegraphed  at  once  to  !Mr.  Toogood,  who 
I  understand  js  acting  as  Mr.  Crawley's  solicitor. 
My  sister  sent  me  his  address." 

"He  is  my  uncle." 

"I  telegraphed  to  him,  telling  him  that  I 
had  given  Mr.  Crawley  the  check,  and  then  I 
wrote  to  Archdeacon  Grantly  giving  him  the 
wliole  history.  I  was  obliged  to  come  here  be- 
fore I  could  return  home,  but  I  intended  to  start 
this  evening." 

"And  what  is  the  whole  history?"  asked 
John  Eames. 

The  history  of  the  gift  of  the  check  was  very 
simple.  It  has  been  told  how  Mr.  Crawley  in 
his  dire  distress  had  called  upon  his  old  friend! 
at  the  deanery  asking  for  pecuniary  assistance.' 
This  he  had  done  with  so  much  reluctance  that 
his  spirit  had  given  way  while  he  was  waiting 
in  the  dean's  librarv,  and  he  had  wished  to  de- 
U 


part  without  accejjtiug  what  the  dean  was  quite 
willing  to  bestow  upon  him.  From  this  cause 
it  had  come  to  pass  there  had  been  no  time  for 
explanatory  words  even  between  the  dean  and 
his  wife — from  whose  private  funds  had  in  truth 
come  the  money  which  had  been  given  to  Mr. 
Crawley.  For  the  private  wealth  of  the  family 
belonged  to  Mrs.  Arabin,  and  not  to  the  dean ; 
and  was  left  entirely  in  Mrs.  Arabin's  hands,  to 
be  disposed  of  as  slic  might  please.  Previously 
to  Mr.  Crawley's  arrival  at  the  deanery  this  mat- 
ter had  been  discussed  between  the  dean  and  his 
wife,  and  it  had  been  agreed  between  them  that 
a  sum  of  fifty  pounds  should  be  given.  It  should 
be  given  by  Mrs.  Arabin,  but  it  was  thought 
that  the  gift  would  come  with  more  comfort  to 
the  recii)ient  from  the  hands  of  his  old  friend 
than  from  those  of  his  wife.  There  had  been 
much  discussion  between  them  as  to  the  mode 
in  which  tliis  might  be  done  with  least  offense 
to  the  man's  feelings — for  they  knew  Mr.  Craw- 
ley and  his  peculiarities  well.  At  last  it  was 
agreed  that  the  notes  should  be  put  into  an  en- 
velope, which  envelope  tlie  dean  should  have 
ready  with  him.  But  when  the  moment  came 
the  dean  did  not  have  the  envelope  ready,  and 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  room  to  seek  his  wife. 
And  Mrs.  Arabin  exjilained  to  John  Eames 
that  even  she  had  not  had  it  ready,  and  had 
been  forced  to  go  to  her  own  desk  to  fetch  it. 
Then,  at  the  last  moment,  with  the  desire  of 
increasing  the  good  to  be  done  to  people  who 
were  so  terribly  in  want,  she  put  the  check  for 
twenty  jiounds,  which  was  in  her  possession  as 
money  of  her  own,  along  with  the  notes,  and  in 
this  way  the  check  had  been  given  by  the  dean 
to  Mr.  Crawlej'.  "I  shall  never  forgive  myself 
for  not  telling  the  clean,"  she  said.  "Had  I 
done  that  all  this  trouble  would  have  been 
saved !" 

"But  where  did  you  get  the  check?"  Eames 
asked,  with  natural  curiosity. 

"Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin.  "I  have  got 
to  show  now  that  I  did  not  steal  it — have  I  not  ? 
Mr.  Soames  will  indict  me  now.  And,  indeed, 
I  have  had  some  trouble  to  refresh  my  memory 
as  to  all  the  particulars,  for  you  see  it  is  more 
than  a  year  past."  But  Mrs.  Arabin's  mind 
was  clearer  on  such  matters  than  Mr.  Crawley's, 
and  she  was  able  to  explain  that  she  had  taken 
the  check  as  part  of  the  rent  due  to  her  from 
the  landlord  of  ' '  The  Dragon  of  Wantly, "  which 
inn  was  lier  property,  having  been  the  property 
of  her  first  husband.  For  some  years  past  there 
had  been  a  difficulty  about  the  rent,  things  not 
having  gone  at  "The  Dragon  of  Wantly"  as 
smoothly  as  they  had  used  to  go.  At  one  time 
the  money  had  been  paid  half-yearly  by  the  land- 
lord's check  on  the  bank  at  Barchester.  For 
the  last  year  and  a  half  this  had  not  been  done, 
and  tiie  money  had  come  into  Mrs.  Arabin's 
hands  at  irregular  periods  and  in  in-egular  sums. 
There  was  at  this  moment  rent  due  for  twelve 
months,  and  Mrs.  Arabin  expressed  her  doubt 
whether  she  would  get  it  on  her  return  to  Bar- 
chester.    On  the  occasion  to  which  she  was  now 


3U 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


alluding  the  money  had  been  paid  into  hex*  own 
hands,  in  the  deanery  breakfast-parlor,  by  a  man 
she  knew  very  well — not  the  landlord  himself, 
but  one  bcarinf?  tlie  landlord's  name,  whom  site 
believed  to  be  the  landlord's  brother,  or  at  least 
his  cousin.  Tlie  man  in  question  was  named 
Daniel  Stringer,  and  he  had  been  employed  in 
"  Tiie  Dragon  of  Wantly,"  as  a  sort  of  clerk  or 
managing  man,  as  long  as  she  had  known  it. 
Tiic  rent  had  been  jiaid  to  her  by  Daniel  String- 
er (juitc  as  often  as  by  Daniel's  brotlicr  or  cous- 
in, John  Stringer,  who  was,  in  truth,  the  land- 
lord of  tlic  hotel.  When  <iuestioncd  by  Jolin 
respecting  the  persons  employed  at  the  inn,  slie 
said  that  she  did  believe  that  there  had  been 
rumors  of  something  wrong.  The  house  had 
been  in  the  hands  of  the  Stringers  for  many 
years — before  tlie  property  had  been  purchased 
by  her  husband's  Hxther — and  therefore  tliere 
!iad  been  an  unwillingness  to  move  them ;  but 
gradually,  so  she  said,  there  had  come  upon  her 
and  her  husband  a  feeling  that  the  house  must 
be  ])Ut  into  other  hands.  "  But  did  you  say 
nothing  about  the  clieck  ?"  John  asked.  "  Yes, 
I  said  a  good  deal  about  it.  I  asked  Avhy  a 
cheek  of  Mr.  Soames's  was  bronght  to  mc  in- 
stead of  being  taken  to  the  bank  for  money ; 
and  Stringer  explained  to  me  tliat  they  were  not 
very  fond  of  going  to  the  bank,  as  they  owed 
money  there,  but  that  I  could  pay  it  into  my 
account.  Only  I  kept  my  account  at  the  other 
bank." 

"You  might  have  paid  it  in  there,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  I  suppose  I  might,  but  I  didn't.  I  gave  it 
to  poor  Mr.  Crawley  instead — like  a  fool,  as  I 
know  now  that  I  was.  And  so  I  liave  brought 
all  this  trouble  on  him  and  on  her ;  and  now  I 
must  rush  home,  without  waiting  for  the  dean, 
as  fast  as  the  trains  will  carry  me." 

Eames  offered  to  accompany  her,  and  this 
offer  was  accepted.  "It  is  hard  upon  you, 
though,"  she  said;  "you  will  see  nothing  of 
Florence.  Three  hours  in  Venice,  and  six  in 
Florence,  and  no  hours  at  all  any  where  else, 
will  be  a  hard  fate  to  you  on  your  first  trip  to 
Italy."  But  Johnny  said  "Excelsior"  to  him- 
self once  more,  and  thought  of  Lily  Dale,  who 
was  still  in  London,  hoping  that  she  miglit  hear 
of  his  exertions  ;  and  he  felt,  perhajis,  also,  that 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  return  with  a  dean's 
wife,  and  never  hesitated.  Nor  would  it  do,  he 
thought,  for  him  to  be  absent  in  the  excitement 
caused  by  the  news  of  Mr.  Crawley's  innocence 
and  injuries.  "I  don't  care  a  bit  about  tiiat," 
he  said.  "  Of  course  I  should  like  to  see  Flor- 
ence, and,  of  course,  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed  ; 
but  I  will  live  in  hopes  that  I  may  do  both  some 
day."  And  so  there  grew  to  be  a  friendship  be- 
tween him  and  Mrs.  Arabin  even  before  they 
had  started. 

lie  was  driven  once  through  Florence ;  he 
saw  the  Venus  de  Medici,  and  he  saw  the  Scg- 
giola ;  he  looked  up  from  the  side  of  the  Duomo 
to  the  top  of  the  Campanile,  and  he  walked 
round  the  back  of  the  cathedral  itself;  he  tried 


I  to  inspect  the  doors  of  the  Baptistery,  and  de- 
clared tliat  the  "David"  M-as  very  fine.  Then 
he  went  back  to  tlie  hotel,  dined  with  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin, and  started  for  England. 

Tiie  dean  was  to  have  joined  his  wife  at  Ven- 
ice, and  then  they  were  to  have  returned  togetli- 
cr,  coming  round  by  Florence.  Mrs.  Arabin 
had  not,  therefore,  taken  her  things  away  from 
Florence  when  she  left  it,  and  had  been  obliged 
to  return  to  jiick  them  up  on  her  journey 
homeward.  He — the  dean — had  been  delayed 
in  his  Eastern  travels.  Neither  Syria  norCon- 
stantino])le  had  got  themselves  done  as  quickly 
as  he  had  exjiected,  and  he  had,  consequently, 
twice  written  to  his  wife,  begging  her  to  par- 
don tlie  transgression  of  his  absence  for  even 
yet  a  few  days  longer.  "Every  thing,  there- 
fore," as  I\Irs.  Arabin  said,  "has  cons]iired  to 
])eri)etuate  this  mystery,  which  a  word  from  me 
would  have  solved.  I  owe  more  to  Mr.  Craw- 
ley tlian  I  can  ever  pay  him." 

"lie  will  be  very  well  paid,  I  tliink,"  said 
John,  "when  he  hears  the  truth.  If  you  could 
see  inside  his  mind  at  this  moment,  I'm  sure 
you'd  find  that  he  thinks  he  stole  the  check." 

"He  can  not  think  that,  Mr.  Eames.  Besides, 
at  tliis  moment  I  hope  he  has  heard  the  trntli." 

"That  may  be,  but  he  did  think  so.  I  do 
believe  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  notion 
where  he  got  it ;  and,  which  is  more,  not  a  sin- 
gle person  in  the  whole  county  had  a  notion. 
People  thought  that  he  had  picked  it  iip,  and 
used  it  in  his  despair.  And  the  bishop  has  been 
so  hard  upon  him  !" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Eames!  that  is  the  worst  of  all." 

"  So  I  am  told.  The  bishop  has  a  wife,  I 
believe." 

"Yes,  he  has  a  wife,  certainly,"  said  Mrs. 
Arabin. 

"And  people  say  tliat  she  is  not  very  good- 
natured." 

"  There  are  some  of  us  at  Barchester  who  do 
not  love  her  very  dearly.  I  can  not  say  that 
she  is  one  of  my  own  especial  friends." 

"  I  believe  she  has  been  hard  to  Mr.  Crawley," 
said  John  Eames. 

"I  should  not  be  in  the  least  surprised," said 
IMrs.  Arabin. 

Then  they  reached  Turin,  and  there,  taking 
up  Galignani's  ^fcssenger  in  the  reading-rocm 
of  Trompetta's  Hotel,  John  Eames  saw  that 
Mi's.  Proudic  was  dead.  "  Look  at  that,"  said 
he,  taking  the  paragraph  to  Mrs.  Arabin  ;  "Mrs. 
Proudie  is  dead!''  "Mrs.  Proudie  dead!"  she 
exclaimed.  "Poor  woman!  Then  there  will 
be  peace  at  Barchester!"  "I  never  knew  her 
very  intimately,"  she  afterward  said  to  her  com- 
panion, "  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  a  right 
to  say  that  she  ever  did  me  an  injury.  But  I 
remember  well  her  first  coming  into  Barchester. 
My  sister's  father-in-law,  the  late  bishop,  was 
just  dead.  He  was  a  mild,  kind,  dear  old  man, 
whom  my  father  loved  beyond  all  the  world,  ex- 
cept his  own  children.  You  may  suppose  we 
were  all  a  little  sad.  I  was  not  specially  con- 
nected with  the  cathedral  then,  except  through 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


315 


my  father" — and  Mrs.  Arabin,  as  she  told  all 
this,  reincmbci-cd  that  in  the  days  of  which  she 
was  speaking  she  was  a  yonnp  mourning  widow 
—  "but  I  think  I  can  never  forget  the  sort  of 
harsh-toned  paean  of  low-church  trurajiets  with 
which  that  poor  woman  made  lier  entry  into  the 
city.  She  might  have  been  more  lenient,  as  Ave 
had  never  smned  by  being  very  high.  She 
might,  at  any  rate,  have  been  more  gentle  with 
us  at  first.  I  think  we  had  never  attempted 
much  beyond  decency,  good-will,  and  comfort. 
Our  comfort  she  utterly  destroyed.  Good-will 
was  not  to  her  taste.  And  as  for  decency,  when 
I  remember  some  things,  I  must  say  that  when 
the  comfort  and  good-will  went,  the  decency 
went  along  with  them.  And  now  she  is  dead  ! 
1  wonder  how  the  bishop  will  get  on  without 
her." 

"Like  a  house  on  fire,  I  should  think,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Fie,  Mr.  Eames-,  you  shouldn't  speak  in 
such  a  way  on  such  a  subject." 

Mrs.  Arabin  and  Johnny  became  fast  friends 
as  they  journeyed  home.  There  was  a  sweet- 
ness in  his  character  which  endeared  him  readi- 
ly to  women  ;  though,  as  we  have  seen,  there 
was  a  want  of  something  to  make  one  woman 
cling  to  him.  He  could  be  soft  and  pleasant- 
mannered  He  was  fond  of  making  himself 
useful,  and  was  a  perfect  master  of  all  those  lit- 
tle caressing  modes  of  behavior  in  which  the 
caress  is  quite  impalpable,  and  of  which  most 
women  know  the  value  and  appreciate  the  com- 
fort. By  the  time  that  they  had  reached  Paris 
John  had  told  Mrs.  Arabin  the  whole  story  of 
Lily  Dale  and  Crosbie,  and  Mrs.  Arabin  had 
promised  to  assist  him,  if  any  assistance  raighjd 
be  in  her  power. 

"Of  course  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Dale,"  she 
said,  "because  we  know  the  De  Courcys." 
Then  she  turned  away  her  face,  almost  blusliing, 
as  she  remembered  the  first  time  that  she  had 
seen  that  Lady  Alexandrina  De  Courcy  whom 
Mr.  Crosbie  had  married.  It  had  been  at  Mr. 
Thome's  house  at  Ullathorne,  and  on  that  day 
she  had  done  a  thing  which  she  had  never  sincB 
remembered  without  blushing.  But  it  was  an 
old  story  now,  and  a  story  of  which  her  com- 
panion knew  nothing — of  which  he  never  could 
know  any  thing.  That  day  at  Ullathorne,  Mrs. 
Arabin,  the  wife  of  the  Dean  of  Barchester,  than 
whom  there  was  no  more  discreet  clerical  matron 
in  the  diocese,  had — bo.xed  a  clerg}'man's  ears! 

"Yes,"  said  John,  speaking  of  Crosbie,  "  he 
was  a  wise  fellow ;  he  knew  what  he  was  about ; 
he  married  an  earl's  daughter." 

"And  now  I  remember  hearing  that  some- 
body gave  him  a  terrible  beating.  Perhaps  it 
was  you?" 

"It  wasn't  terrible  at  all,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Then  it  was  you  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  it  was  I." 

"Then  it  was  you  who  saved  poor  old  Lord 
De  Guest  from  the  bull?" 

"Go  on,  Mrs.  Arabin.  There  is  no  end  of 
the  grand  things  I've  done." 


"You're  quite  a  hero  of  romance." 

He  bit  his  lip  as  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
not  enough  of  a  hero.  "I  don't  know  about 
that,"  said  Johnny.  "I  think  what  a  man 
ought  to  do  in  these  days  is  to  seem  not  to  care 
what  he  eats  and  drinks,  and  to  have  his  linen 
very  well  got  up.  Then  he'll  be  a  hero."  But 
that  was  hard  upon  Lily. 

"Is  that  what  Miss  Dale  requires?"  said 
Mrs.  Arabin. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  about  her  particularly," 
said  Johnny,  lying. 

They  slept  a  night  in  Paris,  as  they  had  done 
also  at  Turin — Mrs.  Arabin  not  finding  herself 
able  to  accomplish  such  marvels  in  the  way  of 
traveling  as  her  companion  had  achieved — and 
then  arrived  in  London  in  the  evening.  She 
was  taken  to  a  certain  quiet  clerical  hotel  at  the 
top  of  Suff"olk  Street,  much  patronized  by  bish- 
ops and  deans  of  the  better  sort,  expecting  to 
find  a  message  there  from  her  husband.  And 
there  was  the  message — ^.just  arrived.  The  dean 
had  reached  Florence  three  days  after  her  de- 
parture ;  and  as  he  would  do  the  journey  home 
in  twenty-four  hours  less  than  she  had  taken, 
he  would  be  there  at  the  hotel  on  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  "I  suppose  I  may  wait  for  him, 
Mr.  Eames?"  said  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Toogood  to-night,  and  I  will 
call  here  to-morrow,  whether  I  see  him  or  not. 
At  what  hour  will  you  be  in  ?" 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  to  do  that.  You 
must  take  care  of  Sir  Rafi3e  Buffle,  you  know." 

"  I  sha'n't  go  near  Sir  Raffle  Buffle  to-morrow, 
nor  yet  the  next  day.  You  mustn't  suppose 
that  I  am  afraid  of  Sir  Raffle  Buffle." 

"  You  are  only  afraid  of  Lily  Dale."  From 
all  which  it  may  be  seen  that  Mrs.  Arabin  and 
John  Eames  had  become  very  intimate  on  their 
way  home. 

It  was  then  arranged  that  he  should  call  on 
Mr.  Toogood  that  same  night  or  early  the  next 
morning,  and  that  he  should  come  to  the  hotel 
at  twelve  o'clock  on  the  next  day.  Going  along 
one  of  the  passages  he  passed  two  gentlemen  in 
shovel-hats,  with  very  black  new  coats,  and  knee- 
breeches  ;  and  Johnny  could  not  but  hear  a  few 
words  which  one  clerical  gentleman  said  to  the 
other.  "  She  was  a  woman  of  great  energy,  of 
wonderful  spirit,  but  a  fire-brand,  my  lord — a 
complete  fire-brand  I"  Then  Johnny  knew  that 
the  Dean  of  A.  was  talking  to  the  Bishop  of  B, 
about  the  late  Mrs.  Proudie. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

MR.  TOOGOOD   AT   SILVERBRIDGE. 

We  will  now  go  back  to  Mr.  Toogood  as  he 
started  for  Silverbridge  on  the  receipt  of  Mrs. 
Arabin's  telegram  from  Venice.  "  I  gave 
check  to  Mr.  Crawley.  It  was  part  of  a  sum 
of  money.  Will  write  to  Archdeacon  Grantly 
to-day,  and  return  home  at  once."  That  was 
the  telegram  which  Mr.  Toogood  received  at  his 


51C 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAIISET. 


office,  aud  on  rccciviiii;  wliicli  he  resolved  that 
he  must  start  to  liarchester  immediately.  "It 
isn't  certainly  what  you  may  call  a  paying  busi- 
ness," he  said  to  his  i)artner,  who  continued  to 
grumble;  "but  it  must  be  done  all  the  same. 
If  it  don't  get  into  the  ledger  in  one  way  it  will 
in  another."  So  Mr.  Toogood  started  for  Sil- 
verbridge,  having  sent  to  his  house  in  Tavistock 
Square  for  a  small  bag,  a  clean  shirt,  and  a 
tooth-brush.  And  as  he  went  down  in  the  rail- 
way-carriage, before  he  went  to  sleep,  he  turned 
i:  all  over  in  his  mind.  "  I'oor  devil !  I  won- 
der whetlier  any  man  ever  suflercd  so  much  be- 
fore. And  as  for  that  woman — it's  ten  thou- 
sand pities  tiiat  she  should  have  died  before  she 
hoard  it.  Talk  of  heart-complaint ;  she'd  have 
had  a  touch  of  heart-eomj)laint  if  she  had  known 
this!"  Then,  as  he  was  si)cculating  how  Mrs. 
Arabin  could  have  become  ])ossesscd  of  the 
check,  he  went  to  sleep. 

He  made  up  his  mind  that  the  first  person  to 
be  seen  was  Mr.  Walker,  and  after  that  he 
would,  if  possible,  go  to  Archdeacon  Grantly. 
He  was  at  first  minded  to  go  at  once  out  to 
Ilogglestock ;  but  when  he  remembered  how 
very  strange  ^Ir.  Crawley  was  in  all  his  ways, 
and  told  himself  i)rofessionally  that  telegrams 
were  but  bad  sources  of  evidence  on  which  to 
depend  for  details,  he  tliought  that  it  would  be 
safer  if  he  were  first  to  sec  Mr.  "Walker.  There 
would  be  very  little  delay.  In  a  day  or  two 
the  archdeacon  would  receive  his  letter,  and  in 
a  day  or  two  after  that  Mrs.  Arabin  would  prob- 
ably be  at  home. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  Mr.  Too- 
good  reached  the  house  of  the  Silverbridge  solic- 
itor, having  the  telegram  carefully  folded  in  his 
pocket ;  and  lie  was  shown  into  the  dining-room 
while  the  servant  took  his  name  up  to  Mr. 
Walker.  The  clerks  were  gone,  and  the  ofl!ice 
was  closed ;  and  persons  coming  on  business  at 
such  times — as  they  often  did  come  to  that  house 
— were  always  shown  into  the  parlor.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  master  can  see  you  to-night," 
said  the  girl ;  "  but  if  he  can,  he'll  come  down." 

When  the  card  was  brought  up  to  Mr.  Walk- 
er he  was  sitting  alone  with  his  wife.  "It's 
Toogood,"  said  he;   "poor  Crawley's  cousin." 

"I  wonder  whetlier  he  has  found  any  thing 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Walker.  "May  he  not  come 
up  here  ?"  Then  Mr.  Toogood  was  summoned 
into  the  drawing-room,  to  the  maid's  astonish- 
ment ;  for  jNIr.  Toogood  had  made  no  toilet 
sacrifices  to  tlie  goddess  or  grace  who  presides 
over  evening  society  in  provincial  towns — and 
presented  himself  with  the  telegram  in  his  hand. 
' '  We  have  found  out  all  about  poor  Crawley's 
check,"  he  said,  before  the  maid-servant  had 
closed  the  door.  "  Look  at  that,"  and  he  hand- 
ed the  telegram  to  Mr.  Walker.  The  poor  girl 
was  obliged  to  go,  though  she  would  have  given 
one  of  her  ears  to  know  the  exact  contents  of 
that  bit  of  paper. 

"Walker,  what  is  it?"  said  his  wife,  before 
Walker  had  had  time  to  make  tlie  contents  of 
the  document  his  own. 


"  He  got  it  from  Mrs.  Arabin, "  said  Too- 
good, 

" No !"  said  Mrs.  Walker.  "I  thought  that 
was  it  all  along." 

"It's  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so  before,"  said 
Mr.  Walker. 

"  So  I  did  ;  but  a  lawyer  thinks  that  nobody 
can  ever  sec  any  thing  but  himself — begging  - 
your  ])ardon,  Mr.  Toogood,  but  I  forgot  you 
were  one  of  us.  But,  Walker,  do  read  it." 
Then  the  telegram  was  read.  "I  gave  check 
to  Mr.  Crawley.  It  was  part  of  a  sum  of  mon- 
ey"'— with  the  rest  of  it.  "I  knew  it  would 
come  out,"  said  Mrs.  Walker.  "I  was  quite 
sure  of  it." 

"But  why  the  mischief  didn't  be  say  so?" 
said  Walker. 

"He  did  say  that  he  got  it  from  the  dean," 
said  Toogood. 

"But  he  didn't  get  it  from  the  dean;  and 
the  dean  clearly  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Walker; 
"it  has  been  some  private  transaction  between 
Mr.  Crawley  and  Mrs.  Arabin,  which  the  dean 
was  to  know  nothing  about ;  and  so  he  wouldn't 
tell.     I  must  say  I  honor  him." 

"I  don't  think  it  has  been  that,"  said  Walk- 
er. "Had  he  known  all  through  that  it  had 
come  from  Mrs.  Arabin,  he  would  never  have 
said  that  Mr.  Soames  gave  it  to  him,  and  then 
that  the  dean  gave  it  liim." 

"The  truth  has  been  that  he  has  known  no- 
thing about  it,"  said  Toogood;  "and  we  shall 
have  to  tell  him." 

At  that  moment  Mary  Walker  came  into  the 
room,  and  Mrs.  Walker  could  not  constrain  her- 
self. "Mary,  Mr.  Crawley  is  all  right.  He 
didn't  steal  the  check.  Mrs.  Arabin  gave  it  to 
him." 

"Who  says  so?  How  do  you  know?  Oh 
dear!  I  am  so  happy,  if  it's  true."  Then  she 
saw  Mr.  Toogood,  aud  courtesied. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 
"Mr.  Toogood  has  had  a  message  by  tlie  wires 
from  Mrs.  Arabin  at  Venice.  She  is  coming 
home  at  once,  and  no  doubt  every  thing  will  be 
put  right.  In  the  mean  time  it  may  be  a  ques- 
tion wliether  we  should  not  hold  our  tongues. 
Mr.  Crawley  himself,  I  suppose,  knows  nothing 
of  it  yet?" 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Toogood. 

"Papa,  I  must  tell  Miss  Prettyman,"  said 
Mary. 

"I  should  think  that  probably  all  Silver- 
bridge  knows  it  by  this  time,"  said  Mrs.  Walk- 
er, "because  Jane  was  in  the  room  when  the 
announcement  was  made.  You  may  be  sure 
that  every  servant  in  the  house  has  been  told." 
Mary  Walker,  not  waiting  for  any  further  com- 
mand from  her  father,  hurried  out  of  the  room 
to  convey  the  secret  to  her  special  circle  of 
friends. 

It  was  known  throughout  Silverbridge  that 
night,  and  indeed  it  made  so  much  commotion 
that  it  kept  many  people  for  an  hour  out  of  tlieir 
beds.     Ladies  who  were  not  in  the  habit  of  go- 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


317 


ing  out  late  at  night  without  tlic  fly  from  the 
"  George  and  Vulture,"  tied  their  licads  uj>  in 
their  handkerchiefs,  and  hurried  up  and  down 
the  street  to  tell  each  other  that  the  great  secret 
liad  been  discovered,  and  that  in  trutli  Mr. 
Crawley  had  not  stolen  the  check.  The  solu- 
tion of  the  mystery  was  not  known  to  all — wa^ 
known  on  that  night  only  to  the  very  select  i)or- 
tion  of  the  aristocracy  of  Silverbridgc  to  wliom 
it  was  communicated  by  RLary  Walker  or  Miss 
Anne  Prettyman.  For  Mary  Walker,  when 
earnestly  entreated  by  Jane,  the  jiarlor-maid,  to 
tell  her  something  more  of  the  great  news,  had 
so  .*ar  respected  her  father's  caution  as  to  say 
not  a  word  about  Mrs.  Arabin.  "Is  it  true. 
Miss  Mary,  that  he  didn't  steal  it  ?"  Jane  asked, 
imploringlj'.  "It  is  true.  He  did  not  steal  it." 
"And  who  did,  Miss  Mary?  Indeed  I  won't 
tell  any  body."  "Nobody.  But  don't  ask  any 
more  questions,  for  I  won't  answer  tiiem.  Get 
me  my  hat  at  once,  for  I  want  to  go  up  to  Miss 
Prcttyman's."  Then  Jane  got  Miss  Walker's 
hat,  and  immediately  afterward  scampered  into 
the  kitchen  with- tlie  news.  "Oh,  law,  cook, 
it's  all  come  out !  Mr.  Crawley's  as  innocent 
as  the  unborn  babe.  The  gentleman  up  stnirs 
what's  just  come,  and  was  here  once  befure — for 
I  know'd  him  immediate — I  lieard  liim  say  so. 
And  master  said  so  too." 

"Did  master  say  so  his  own  self?"  asked  the 
cook, 

"  Indeed  he  did ;  and  Miss  Mary  told  me  the 
same  this  moment." 

"If  master  said  so,  then  there  ain't  a  doubt 
as  they'll  find  him  innocent.  And  who  took'd 
it,  Jane  ?" 

"  Miss  Mary  says  as  nobody  didn't  steal  it." 

"That's  nonsense,  Jane.  It  stands  to  reason 
as  somebody  had  it  as  hadn't  ought  to  Iiave  had 
it.  But  I'm  as  glad  as  any  thing  as  how  that 
poor  reverend  gent  '11  come  oft" — I  am.  Tliey 
tells  me  it's  weeks  sometimes  before  a  bit  of 
butcher's  meat  finds  its  way  into  liis  house." 
Then  the  groom  and  the  house-maid  and  tiie 
cook,  one  after  another,  took  occasion  to  slip 
out  of  the  back-door,  and  poor  Jane,  who  had 
really  been  the  owner  of  the  news,  was  left  alone 
to  answer  the  bell. 

Miss  Walker  found  the  two  Miss  Prettymans 
sitting  together  over  their  accounts  in  the  elder 
Miss  Prettyman's  private  room.  And  she  could 
sea  at  once  by  signs  which  were  not  unfamiliar 
to  her  that  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  was  being 
scolded.  It  often  happened  that  Miss  Anne 
Prettyman  was  scolded,  especially  when  the  ac- 
counts were  brought  out  upon  the  table.  "  Sis- 
ter, they  are  illegible,"  jMary  Walker  lieard,  as 
the  servant  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said 
Miss  Anne,  unable  to  restrain  her  defense. 
Then,  as  Mary  entered  the  room,  Miss  Pretty- 
man the  elder  laid  her  hands  down  on  certain 
books  and  papers  as  though  to  hide  them  from 
profane  eyes. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mary,"  said  Miss 
Prettyman,  gravely. 


"  I've  brought  such  a  piece  of  news,"  said 
Mary.  "  I  knew  you'd  be  glad  to  hear  it,  so  I 
ventured  to  disturb  you." 

"  Is  it  good  news  ?"  said  Anne  Prettyman. 

"Very  good  news.  Mr.  Crawley  is  inno- 
cent." 

Both  the  ladies  sprung  on  to  their  legs.  Even 
Miss  Prettyman  herself  jumped  up  on  to  her 
legs.  "No!"  said  Anne.  "Your  father  has 
discovered  it?"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 

"  Not  exactly  that.  Mr.  Toogood  lias  com,c 
down  from  London  to  tell  him.  Mr.  Toogood, 
you  know,  is  Mr.  Crawley's  cousin ;  and  he  is  a 
lawyer,  like  papa."  It  may  be  observed  that 
ladies  belonging  to  the  families  of  solicitors  al- 
ways talk  about  lawyers,  and  never  about  attor- 
neys or  barristers. 

"And  does  Mr.  Toogood  say  that  INIr.  Craw- 
ley is  innocent?"  asked  Miss  Prettyman. 

"  He  has  heard  it  by  a  message  from  Mrs. 
Arabin.  But  you  mustn't  mention  this.  You 
won't,  please,  because  papa  has  asked  me  not. 
I  told  him  that  I  should  tell  you."  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  the  frown  passed  away  entirely 
from  Miss  Prettyman's  face,  and  the  papers  and 
account-books  were  pushed  aside,  as  being  of 
no  moment.  The  news  had  been  momentous 
enough  to  satisfy  her.  Mary  continued  her 
story  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  It  was  ]\Irs.  Ara- 
bin who  sent  the  check  to  Mr.  Crawley.  She 
says  so  herself.  So  that  makes  Mr.  Crawley 
quite  innocent.     I  am  so  glad." 

"  But  isn't  it  odd  he  didn't  say  so?"  said  Miss 
Prettyman. 

"Nevertheless  it's  true,"  said  Mary. 

"  Perhaps  he  forgot,"  said  Anne  Prettyman. 

"  Men  don't  forget  sucli  things  as  that,"  said 
the  elder  sister. 

"I  really  do  think  Mr.  Crawley  could  forget 
any  thing,"  said  the  younger  sister. 

"You  may  be  sure  it's  true,"  said  Mary 
Walker,  "  because  papa  said  so." 

"If  he  said  so  it  must  be  true,"  said  Miss 
Prettyman  ;  "and  I  am  rejoiced.  I  really  am 
rejoiced.  Poor  man  !  Poor  ill-used  man!  And 
nobody  has  ever  believed  that  he  has  really  been 
guilty,  even  though  they  may  have  thought  that  he 
spent  the  money  without  any  proper  right  to  it. 
And  now  he  will  get  off".  But  dear  me,  Mary, 
Mr.  Smithe  told  me  yesterday  that  he  had  al- 
ready given  up  his  living,  and  that  Mr.  Spoon- 
er,  the  minor  canon,  was  trying  to  get  it  from 
the  dean.  But  that  was  because  Mr.  Spooner 
and  Mrs.  Proudie  had  quarreled  ;  and  as  Mrs. 
Proudie  is  gone,  Mr.  Spooner  very  likely  won"t 
want  to  move  now." 

"They'll  never  go  and  put  any  body  into 
Hogglestock,  Annabella,  over  Mr.  Crawley's 
head,"  said  Anne. 

"I  didn't  say  that  they  would.  Surely  I 
may  be  allowed  to  repeat  what  I  hear,  like  an- 
other person,  witliout  being  snapped  up." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  snap  you  up,  Annabella." 

"  You're  always  snapping  me  up.  But  if  this 
is  true,  I  can  not  sa}'  how  glad  I  am.  My  jjoor 
Grace!     Now,  I  sujipose,  there  will  be  no  diffi- 


318 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


culty,  and  Grace  will  become  a  great  lady." 
Tlien  tlicy  discussed  very  minutely  the  chances 
of  Grace  Crawley's  promotion. 

John  Walker,  Mr.  Wintln-0]i,  and  several  otli- 
ers  of  the  chosen  spirits  of  Silverbridgc,  were 
jiluying  whist  at  a  provincial  club,  which  had 
cstablislied  itself  in  the  town,  when  the  news 
was  brou;.jht  to  them.  Though  Mr.  Winlhrop 
was  the  partner  of  the  great  Walker,  and  though 
Jolm  Walker  was  the  great  man's  son,  I  fear 
that  the  news  reached  their  cars  in  but  an  under- 
hand sort  of  way.  As  for  the  great  man  him- 
self, he  never  went  near  the  club,  preferring  his 
si  ijipers  and  tea  at  home.  The  Walkerian  groom, 
rushing  up  tiie  street  to  the  "CJeorge  and  Vul- 
ture," paused  a  moment  to  tell  his  tidings  to  the 
club  porter ;  from  the  club  porter  it  was  whis- 
jiored  respectfully  to  the  JSilverbridge  apotheca- 
ry, who,  by  special  grace,  was  a  member  of  tlie 
club  ;  and  was  by  him  repeated  with  much  cau- 
tious solemnity  over  the  card-table.  "Who 
told  you  that,  Balsam  ?"  said  John  Walker, 
throwing  down  his  cards. 

"I've  just  heard  it,"  said  Balsam. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  John. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it's  true,"  said  Win- 
tln'op.  "I  always  said  that  something  would 
turn  up." 

' '  Will  you  bet  three  to  one  he  is  not  found 
guilty?"  said  John  Walker. 

"Done," said Winthrop;  "in pounds."  That 
morning  the  odds  in  the  club  against  the  event 
had  been  only  two  to  oue.  But  as  the  matter 
was  discussed  the  men  in  the  club  began  to  be- 
lieve the  tidings,  and  before  he  went  home 
John  Walker  would  have  been  glad  to  hedge  his 
bet  on  any  terms.  After  he  had  spoken  to  his 
father  he  gave  his  money  up  for  lost. 

But  Mr.  Walker  — the  great  Walker  — had 
more  to  do  that  night  before  his  son  came  home 
from  the  club.  He  and  Mr.  Toogood  agreed 
that  it  would  be  right  that  they  should  see  Dr. 
Tempest  at  once,  and  they  went  over  together 
to  the  rectory.  It  was  past  ten  at  this  time, 
and  they  found  the  doctor  almost  in  the  act  of 
putting  out  the  candles  for  the  night.  "  I  could 
not  but  come  to  you,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Walker, 
"with  the  news  my  friend  has  brought.  Mrs. 
Arabin  gave  the  check  to  Crawley.  Here  is  a 
telegram  from  her  saying  so."  And  the  tele- 
gram was  handed  to  the  doctor. 

He  stood  perfectly  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
reading  it  over  and  over  again.  "  I  see  it  all," 
he  said,  when  he  spoke  at  last.  "I  see  it  all 
now ;  and  I  must  own  I  was  never  before  so 
much  puzzled  in  my  life." 

"I  own  I  can't  see  why  she  should  have  given 
him  Mr.  Soames's  check,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

"I  can't  say  where  she  got  it,  and  I  own  I 
don't  much  care,"  said  Dr.  Tempest.  "But  I 
don't  doubt  but  what  she  gave  it  him  witliout 
telling  the  dean,  and  that  Crawley  thought  it 
came  from  the  dean.  I'm  very  glad.  I  am, 
indeed,  very  glad.  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever 
pitied  a  man  so  much  iu  my  life  as  I  have  pit- 
ied Mr.  Crawley." 


"It  must  have  been  a  hard  case  when  it  has 
moved  him,"  said  Mr.  Walker  to  Mr.  Toogood 
as  they  left  the  clergyman's  house ;  and  then 
the  Silverbridge  attorney  saw  the  attorney  from 
London  home  to  his  inn. 

It  was  the  general  opinion  at  Silverbridge 
that  the  news  from  Venice  ought  to  be  com- 
municated to  the  Crawleys  by  Major  Grantly. 
Mary  Walker  had  expressed  this  oj>iuion  very 
strongly,  and  her  mother  had  agreed  with  her. 
Miss  i'rettyman  also  felt  that  poetical  justice, 
or,  at  least,  the  romance  of  justice,  demanded 
this ;  and,  as  she  told  her  sister  Anne  after  JMary 
Walker  left  her,  she  was  of  opinion  that  such 
an  arrangement  might  tend  to  make  things  safe. 
"I  do  thiuk  he  is  an  honest  man  and  a  fine  fel- 
low," said  Miss  Prettyman  ;  "  but,  my  dear,  you 
know  what  the  jiroverb  says,  '  Tliere's  many  a 
slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip.' "  Miss  Pretty- 
man  thought  that  any  thing  which  might  be 
done  to  prevent  a  slip  ought  to  be  done.  The 
idea  that  the  jdeasant  task  of  taking  the  news 
out  to  Hogglestock  ought  to  be  confided  to  Ma- 
jor Grantly  was  very  general ;  but  then  Mr. 
Walker  was  of  opinion  that  the  news  ought  not 
to  be  taken  to  Hogglestock  at  all  till  something 
more  certain  than  the  telegram  had  reached 
them.  Early  on  the  following  morning  the  two 
lawyers  again  met,  and  it  was  arranged  between 
them  that  the  London  lawjer  should  go  over  at 
once  to  Barchcster,  and  that  the  Silverbridge 
lawyer  should  see  Major  Grantly.  Mr.  Too- 
good  was  still  of  ojiinion  that  with  dne  diligence 
something  miglit  yet  be  learned  as  to  the  check 
by  inquiry  among  the  denizens  of  "The  Dragon 
of  Wantly ;"  and  his  opinion  to  this  effect  was 
stronger  than  ever  when  he  learned  from  Mr. 
Walker  tliat  "  The  Dragon  of  Wantly"  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Arabin. 

Mr.  Walker,  after  breakfiist,  had  himself  driv- 
en up  in  his  open  carriage  to  Cosby  Lodge,  and,  ! 
as  he  entered  the  gates,  observed  that  the  auc- 
tioneer's bills  as  to  the  sale  had  been  pulled 
down.  The  Mr.  Walkers  of  the  world  know 
every  thing,  and  our  Mr.  Walker  had  quite  un- 
derstood that  the  major  was  leaving  Cosby 
Lodge  because  of  some  misunderstanding  with 
his  father.  The  exact  nature  of  the  misunder- 
standing he  did  not  know,  even  though  he  was 
Mr.  W^alker,  but  had  little  doubt  that  it  referred 
in  some  way  to  Grace  Crawley.  If  the  arch- 
deacon's objection  to  Grace  arose  from  the  im- 
putation against  the  father,  that  objection  would 
now  be  removed,  but  the  abolition  of  the  posters 
could  not  as  yet  have  been  owing  to  any  such 
cause  as  that.  Mr.  Walker  found  the  major  at 
the  gate  of  the  farm-yard  attached  to  Cosby 
Lodj,e,  and  perceived  that  at  that  very  moment 
he  was  engaged  in  superintending  the  abolition 
of  sundry  other  auctioneer's  bills  from  sundry 
other  posts.  "  What  is  all  thi^  about  ?"  said  Mr. 
Walker,  greeting  the  major.  "Is  there  to  be  * 
no  sale  after  all  ?" 
.    "  It  has  been  postponed,"  said  the  m.ajor. 

"Postponed  for  good,  I  hope ?  Bill  to  be  read 
again  this  day  six  months !"  said  Mr.  Walker. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAESET. 


319 


"I  rather  think  not.  But  circumstances 
have  induced  me  to  have  it  ])ut  off." 

Mr.  Walker  had  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and 
had  taken  Major  Grantly  aside.  "  Just  come 
a  little  further,"  he  said ;  "I've  something  spe- 
cTal  to  tell  you.  News  reached  me  last  ni^ht 
which  will  clear  Mr.  Crawley  altogether.  We 
know  now  where  he  got  the  check."  . 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so !"  / 

"Yes,  I  do.  And  though  the  news  has 
reached  us  in  such  a  way  that  we  can  not  act 
upon  it  till  it's  confirmed,  I  do  not  in  the  least 
doubt  it." 

"  And  how  did  he  get  it  ?" 

"You  can  not  guess?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  the  major ;  "  unless, 
after  all,  Soames  gave  it  to  him." 

"  Soames  did  not  give  it  to  him,  but  Mrs. 
Arabin  did." 

"  Mrs.  Arabin  ?"  / 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Arabin." 

"Not  the  dean?" 

"No,  not  the  dean.  What  we  know  is  this, 
that  your  aunt  has  telegraphed  to  Crawley's 
cousin,  Toogood,  to  say  that  she  gave  Crawlej'- 
that  check,  and  that  she  has  written  to  your  fa- 
ther about  it  at  length.  We  do  not  like  to  tell 
Crawley  till  that  letter  has  been  received.  It  is 
so  easy,  you  know,  to  misunderstand  a  telegram, 
and  the  wrong  copying  of  a  word  may  make 
such  a  mistake !" 

"  When  was  it  received  ?" 

"  Toogood  received  it  in  London  only  yester- 
day morning.  Your  father  will  not  get  his  let- 
ter, as  I  calculate,  till  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
But  perhaps  you  had  better  go  over  and  see 
him,  and  prepare  him  for  it.  Toogood  has  gone 
to  Barchester  this  morning."  To  this  proposi- 
tion Grantly  made  no  immediate  answer.  He 
could  not  but  remember  the  tei-ms  on  which  he 
had  left  his  father;  aaid  though  he  had,  most  un- 
willingly, pulled  down  the  auctioneer's  bills,  in 
compliance  with  his  mother's  last  prayer  to  him 
— and,  indeed,  had  angrily  told  the  auctioneer 
to  send  him  in  his  bill  when  the  auctioneer  had 
demurred  to  these  proceedings — nevertheless  he 
was  hardly  prepared  to  discuss  the  matter  of  Mr. 
Crawley  with  his  father  in  pleasant  words — in 
words  which  should  be  full  of  rejoicing.  It  was 
a  great  thing  for  him,  Henry  Grantly,  that  Mr. 
Crawley  should  be  innocent,  and  he  did  rejoice ; 
but  he  had  intended  his  father  to  understand 
that  he  meant  to  persevere,  whether  Mr.  Craw- 
ley were  innocent  or  guilty,  and  thus  he  would 
now  lose  an  opportunity  for  exhibiting  his  ob- 
stinacy— an  opportunity  which  had  not  been 
without  a  charm  for  him.  He  must  console 
himself  as  best  he  might  with  the  returning  pros- 
pect of  assured  prosperity,  and  with  his  renewed 
hopes  as  to  the  Plumstead  foxes !  ' '  We  think, 
miTJor,  that  when  the  time  comes  you  ought  to 
be  the  bearer  of  the  news  to  Hogglestock," 
said  Mr.  Walker.  Then  the  major  did  under- 
take to  convey  the  news  to  Hogglestock,  but) 
he  made  no  promise  as  to  going  over  to  riuni- 
stead. 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

MR.  TOOGOOD    AT   "THE   DRAGON    OF   WANTLT." 

In  accordance  with  his  arrangement  with  Mr. 
Walker,  Mr.  Toogood  went  over  to  Barchester 
early  in  the  morning  and  put  himself  up  at 
"The  Dragon  of  Wantly."  He  now  knew  the 
following  facts :  that  Mr.  Soames,  when  he  lost 
his  check,  had  had  with  him  one  of  the  servants 
from  that  inn  ;  that  the  man  who  had  been  with 
Mr.  Soames  had  gone  to  New  Zealand  ;  that  the 
check  had  found  its  way  into  the  hands  of  Mrs. 
Arabin ;  and  that  Mrs.  Arabin  was  the  owner 
of  the  inn  in  question.  So  much  he  believed  to 
be  within  his  knowledge,  and  if  his  knowledge 
should  prove  to  be  correct,  his  work  would  be 
done  as  far  as  Mr.  Crawley  was  concerned.  If 
Mr.  Crawley  had  not  stolen  tlie  check,  and  if 
that  could  be  proved,  it  would  be  a  question  of 
no  great  moment  to  Mr.  Toogood  who  had 
stolen  it.  But  he  was  a  sportsman  in  his  own 
line  who  liked  to  account  for  his  own  fox.  As 
he  was  down  at  Barcliester,  he  thought  that 
he  might  as  well  learn  how  tlie  check  had  got 
into  Mrs.  Arabin's  hands.  No  doubt  that  for 
her  own  personal  possession  of  it  she  would  be 
able  to  account  on  her  return.  Probably  such 
account  would  be  given  in  her  first  letter  home. 
But  it  might  be  well  that  he  should  be  prepared 
with  any  small  circumstantial  details  which  he 
might  be  able  to  pick  up  at  the  inn. 

He  reached  Barchester  before  breakfast,  and 
in  ordering  his  tea  and  toast  reminded  the  old 
waiter  with  the  dirty  towel  of  his  former  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  "  I  remember  you.  Sir," 
said  the  old  waiter.  "  I  remember  you  very 
well.  You  was  asking  questions  about  the 
check  which  Mr.  Soames  lost  afore  Christmas." 
Mr.  Toogood  certainly  had  asked  one  question 
on  the  subject.  He  had  inquired  whether  a  cer- 
tain man  who  had  gone  to  New  Zealand  had 
been  the  post-boy  who  accompanied  Mr.  Soames 
when  the  check  was  lost ;  and  the  waiter  had 
professed  to  know  nothing  about  Mr.  Soames  or 
the  check.  He  now  perceived  at  once  that  the 
gist  of  the  question  had  remained  on  the  old 
man's  mind,  and  that  he  was  recognized  as 
being  in  some  way  connected  with  the  lost 
money. 

"Did  I?  Ah,  yes;  I  think  I  did.  And  I 
think  you  told  me  that  he  was  the  man  ?" 

"  No,  Sir  ;  I  never  told  you  that." 

"Then  you  told  me  that  he  wasn't." 

"Nor  I  didn't  tell  you  that  neither,"  said  the 
waiter,  angrily. 

"Then  what  the  devil  did  you  tell  me ?"  To 
this  further  question  the  waiter  sulkily  declined 
to  give  any  answer,  and  soon  afterward  left  the 
room.  Toogood,  as  soon  as  he  had  done  his 
breakfast,  rang  the  bell,  and  the  same  man  ap- 
peared. "Will  you  tell  Mr.  Stringer  that  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  him  if  he's  disengaged," 
said  Mr.  Toogood.  "I  know  he's  bad  with 
the  gout,  and  therefore  if  he'll  allow  me,  I'll  go 
to  him  instead  of  his  coming  to  me.'"  Mr.  | 
Stringer  was  the  landlord  of  the  inn.     The  ' 


320 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  DARSET. 


waiter  hesitateil  a  moment,  and  then  declared 
that  to  the  best  of  his  belief  his  master  was  not 
down.  He  would  po  and  see.  Toogood,  how- 
ever, would  not  wait  for  that ;  but  rising  quick- 
ly and  passing  tlie  waiter,  crossed  the  hall  from 
the  coft'ee-rooni,  and  entered  what  was  called  tlic 
bar.  The  bar  was  a  small  room  connected  with 
the  hall  by  a  large  open  window,  at  which  orders 
for  rooms  were  given  and  cash  was  paid,  and 
glasses  of  beer  were  consumed — and  a  good  deal 
of  miscellaneous  conversation  was  carried  on. 
The  bar-maid  was  here  at  the  window,  and  there 
was  also,  in  a  corner  of  tlie  room,  a  man  at  a 
desk  with  a  red  nose.  Tongood  knew  that  the 
man  at  the  desk  witli  the  red  nose  was  Jlr. 
Stringer's  clerk.  So  mucli  he  had  learned  in 
his  former  rummaging  about  the  inn.  And 
he  also  remembered  at  this  moment  that  he  had 
observed  the  man  witii  tlic  red  nose  standing 
under  a  narrow  archway  in  the  close  as  he  was 
coming  out  of  the  deanery  on  the  occasion  of 
his  visit  to  Mr.  Harding.  It  liad  not  occurred 
to  him  then  that  the  man  witli  the  red  nose  was 
watching  him,  but  it  did  occur  to  him  now  that 
tlie  man  with  the  red  nose  had  been  there,  un- 
der the  arch,  with  the  express  purpose  of  watch- 
ing him  on  that  occasion.  Mr.  Toogood  passed 
(piickly  through  the  bar  into  an  inner  parlor,  in 
which  was  sitting  Mr.  Stringer,  the  landlord, 
])ropi)ed  among  his  cushions.  Toogood,  as  he 
had  entered  the  hotel,  had  seen  Mr.  Stringer  so 
j)laced,  througli  the  two  doors,  wdiich  at  fiiat 
moment  had  both  hapiiened  to  be  ojjcn.  He 
knew,  therefore,  that  his  old  friend  the  waiter 
had  not  been  quite  true  to  him  in  suggesting 
that  liis  master  was  not  as  yet  down.  As  Too- 
good  cast  a  glance  of  his  eye  on  the  man  with 
the  red  nose  he  told  himself  the  old  story  of  the 
apparition  under  the  archway. 

"Mr.  Stringer,"  said  Mr.  Toogood  to  the 
landlord,  "  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding." 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  Sir,"  said  the  forlorn  man. 
"Xobody  ever  intrudes  coming  in  here.  I'm 
always  happy  to  see  gentlemen — only,  mostly, 
I'm  so  bad  with  the  gout." 

"  Have  you  got  a  sharp  touch  of  it  just  now, 
Mr.  Stringer?" 

"Not  just  to-day.  Sir.  I've  been  a  little  easi- 
er since  Saturday.  The  worst  of  this  burst  is 
over.  But  Lord  bless  you,  Sir,  it  don't  leave 
me  —  not  for  a  fortnight  at  a  time,  now ;  it 
don't.  And  it  ain't  what  I  drink,  nor  it  ain't 
what  I  cat." 

"Constitutional,  I  suppose?"  said  Toogood. 
"Look  here,  Sir;"  and  Mr.  Stringer  showed 
his  visitor  the  chalk  stones  in  all  his  knuckles. 
"They  say  I'm  all  a  mass  of  chalk.  I  some- 
times think  they'll  break  me  up  to  mark  the 
scores  behind  my  own  door  with.  '  And  Mr. 
Stringer  laughed  at  his  own  wit 

Mr.  Toogood  laughed  too.  He  laughed  loud 
and  cheerily.  And  then  he  asked  a  sudden 
question,  keeping  his  eye  as  he  did  so  upon  a  j 
little  square  open  window,  which  communicated 
between  the  landlord's  private  room  and  the 
bar.     Through  this  small  aperture  he  could  see  ! 


as  he  stood  a  portion  of  the  hat  worn  by  the 
man  with  the  red  nose  Since  he  had  been  in 
the  room  with  the  landlord  the  man  with  the 
red  nose  had  moved  his  head  twice,  on  each 
occasion  drawing  himself  closer  into  his  corner ; 
but  I\Ir.  Toogood,  by  moving  also,  had  still  c(5n- 
trived  to  keep  a  morsel  of  the  hat  in  sight.  He 
laughed  cheerily  at  the  landlord's  joke,  and  then 
he  asked  a  sudden  question,  looking  w  ell  at  the 
morsel  of  the  hat  as  he  did  so.  "Mr.  Stringer," 
said  he,  "how  do  you  pay  your  rent,  and  to 
whom  do  youjiay  it?"  There  was  immediate- 
ly a  jerk  in  the  hat,  and  then  it  disai)])earcd.  / 
Toogood,  stepjiing  to  the  open  door,  saw  that  the 
red-nosed  clerk  had  taken  his  hat  oft"  and  was 
very  busy  at  his  accounts. 

"  How  do  I  pay  my  rent  ?"  said  Mr.  Stringer, 
the  landlord.  "Well,  Sir,  since  this  cursed  gout 
has  been  so  bad  it's  hard  enough  to  jiay  it  at  all 
sometimes.  You  ain't  sent  here  to  look  for  it, 
Sir,  are  you  ?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Toogood.  "It  was  only  a 
chance  question."  He  felt  that  he  had  nothing 
more  to  do  with  ]\Tr.  Stringer,  the  landlord.  Mr. 
Stringer,  the  landlord,  knew  nothing  about  Mr. 
Soames's  check.  "What's  the  name  of  your 
clerk?"  said  he. 

"The  name  of  my  clerk?"  said  Mr.  Stringer. 
"  AVhv  do  3'ou  want  to  know  the  name  of  my 
clerk  ?" 

"  Does  he  ever  pay  your  rent  for  you  ?"  ' 

"Well,  yes;  he  does  at  times.  He  pays  it 
into  the  bank  for  the  lady  as  owns  the  house. 
Is  there  any  reason  for  your  asking  these  ques- 
tions, Sir  ?  It  isn't  usual,  you  know,  for  a  stran- 
ger. Sir." 

Toogood  during  the  whole  of  this  time  was 
standing  with  his  eye  upon  the  red-nosed  man, 
and  the  red-nosed  man  could  not  move.  The 
red-nosed  man  heard  all  the  questions  and  the 
landlord's  answers,  and  could  not  even  pretend 
that  he  did  not  hear  them.  "  I  am  my  cousin's 
clerk,"  said  he,  jnitting  on  his  hat,  and  coming 
up  to  Mr.  Toogood  with  a  swagger.  "  My  name 
is  Dan  Stringer,  and  I'm  Mr.  John  Stringer's 
cousin.  I've  lived  with  Mr.  John  Stringer  for' 
twelve  year  and  more,  and  I'm  a'most  as  well 
known  in  Barchester  as  himself.  Have  you  any 
thing  to  say  to  me,  Sir  ?" 

"  Well,  yes;  I  have," said  Toogood. 

"  I  believe  you're  one  of  them  attorneys  from 
London?" said  Mr.  Dan  Stringer. 

"That's  true.  I  am  an  attorney  from  Lon- 
don." 

"I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong,"  said  the 
gouty  man,  trying  to  get  off  his  chair,  but  not 
succeeding.  "  If  there  is  any  thing  wronger 
than  usual,  Dan,  do  tell  me.  Is  there  any  thing 
wrong.  Sir?"  and  the  landlord  appealed  pitcous- 
ly  to  Mr.  Toogood. 

"Never  you  mind,  John,"  said  Dan  "  You 
keep  yourself  quiet,  and  don't  answer  none  of 
his  questions.  He's  one  of  them  low  sort,  he 
is.  I  know  him.  I  knowed  him  for  what  he  is 
directlj'  I  saw  him.  Ferreting  about — that's 
his  game  ;  to  see  if  there's  any  thing  to  be  got," 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


321 


"But  what  is  he  ferreting  here  for?"  said 
Mr.  John  Stringer. 

"I'm  ferreting  for  Mr.  Soames's  check  for 
twenty  iiounds,"  said  Mr.  Toogood. 

"That's  the  check  that  the  parson  stole," 
said  Dan  Stringer.  "  He's  to  be  tried  for  it  at 
tiie  'sizes." 

"You've  heard  about  Mr.  Soamcs  and  his 
check,  and  about  Mr.  Crawley,  I  dare  say,"  said 
Toogood. 

"  I've  heard  a  deal  about  them,"  said  the  land- 
lord. 

"And  so,  I  dare  say,  have  you,"  said  Toogood, 
turning  to  Dan  Stringer.  But  Dan  Stringer 
dul  not  seem  inclined  to  cany  on  the  conversa- 
tion any  further.  When  he  was  hardly  ])vessed 
he  declared  that  he  Just  had  heard  that  there 
Avas  siMiic.  i)ars()n  in  trouble  about  a  sum  of 
money;  but  that  he  knew  no  more  about  it  than 
that.  He  ditln't  know  whether  it  was  a  check 
or  a  note  that  the  parson  had  taken,  and  had 
never  been  sufficiently  interested  iu  the  matter 
to  make  any  inquiry. 

"  But  you've  just  said  that  Mr.  Soames's  check 
was  the  check  the  parson  stole,"  said  the  aston-. 
ished  landlord,  turning  with  open  eyes  upon  his 
cousin. 

"You  be  bIov.ed !"  said  Dan  Stringer,  the 
clerk,  to  Mr.  John  Stringer,  the  landlord ;  and 
then  walked  out  of  the  room  back  to  the  bar. 

"I  understand  nothing  about  it — nothing  at 
all,"  said  the  gouty  man. 

"  I  understand  pretty  nearly  all  about  it,"  said 
IMr.  Toogood,  following  the  red -nosed  clerk. 
There  was  no  necessity  that  he.  should  trouble 
the  landlord  any  further.  He  left  the  room, 
and  went  through  the  bar,  and  as  he  passed  out 
along  the  hall  he  found  Dan  Stringer  with  his 
hat  on  talking  to  tlie  waiter.  The  waiter  im- 
mediately pulled  himself  up,  and  adjusted  his 
dirty  najjkin  under  his  arm,  after  the  fashion 
of  waiters,  and  showed  that  he  intended  to  be 
civil  to  the  customers  of  the  house.  But  he  of 
the  red  nose  cocked  his  hat,  and  looked  with 
insolence  at  Mr.  Toogood,  and  defied  him. 
"There's  nothing  I  do  hate  so  much  as  them 
low-bred  Old  Bailey  attorneys,"  said  j\Ir.  Dan 
Stringer  to  the  waiter,  in  a  voice  intended  to 
reach  Mr.  Toogood's  ears.  Then  Mr.  Toogood 
told  himself  that  Dan  Stringer  was  not  the  thief 
himself,  and  tiiat  it  might  be  very  difficult  to 
prove  that  Dan  had  even  been  the  receiver  of 
stolen  goods.  He  had,  however,  no  doubt  in 
his  own  mind  but  that  such  was  the  case. 

He  first  went  to  the  police-office,  and  there 
explained  his  business.  Nobody  at  the  police- 
office  ]iretended  to  forget  Mr.  Soames's  check, 
or  Mr  Crawley's  position.  The  constable  went 
so  far  as  to  swear  tiiat  there  wasn't  a  man,  wo- 
man, or  child  in  all  Barchester  who  was  not 
talking  of  Mr.  Crawley  at  that  very  moment. 
Then  Mr.  Toogood  went  with  the  constable  to 
the  jirivate  house  of  the  mayor,  and  had  a  little 
conversation  with  the  mayor.  "Not  guilty!" 
said  the  mayor,  with  incredulity,  when  he  first 
heard  the  news  about  Crawley.     But  when  he 


heard  Mr.  Toogood's  story,  or  as  much  of  it  as 
it  was  necessary  that  he  should  licar,  he  yielded 
reluctantly.  "Dear,  dear!"  he  said.  "I'd 
have  bet  any  thing  'twas  lie  who  stole  it." 
And  after  that  the  mayor  was  quite  sad.  Only 
let  us  think  what  a  comfortable  excitement  it 
would  create  throughout  England  if  it  was  sur- 
mised that  an  archbishop  had  forged  a  deed ; 
and  how  much  England  would  lose  when  it  was 
discovered  that  the  archbishop  was  innocent ! 
As  the  archbishop  and  his  forgery  would  be  to 
England,  so  was  Mr.  Crawley  and  the  check  for 
twenty  pounds  to  Barcliester  and  its  mayor. 
Nevertheless,  the  mayor  promised  his  assist- 
ance to  Mr.  Toogood. 

Mr.  Toogood,  still  neglecting  his  rcd-noscd 
friend,  Avent  next  to  the  deanery,  hoping  that 
he  might  again  see  Mr.  Harding.  Mr.  Haid- 
ing  was,  he  was  told,  too  ill  to  be  seen.  Mr. 
Harding,  Mrs.  Baxter  said,  could  never  be  seen 
now  by  strangers,  nor  yet  by  friends,  unless  they 
were  very  (^d  friends.  "There's  been  a  deal 
of  change  since  you  were  here  last,  Sir.  I  re- 
member your  coming,  Sir.  You  were  talking  to 
Mr.  Harding  about  the  poor  clergyman  as  is  to 
be  tried."  He  did  not  stop  to  tell  Mrs.  Baxter 
the  whole  story  of  Mr.  Crawley's  innocence ; 
but  having  learned  that  a  message  had  been  re- 
ceived to  say  that  Mrs.  Arabin  would  be  home 
on  the  next  Tuesday — this  being  Friday — he 
took  his  leave  of  Mrs.  Baxter.  His  next  visit 
was  to  Mr.  Soames,  who  lived  three  miles  out 
in  the  country, 

He  found  it  very  difficult  to  convince  Mr. 
Soames.  Jlr.  Soames  was  more  stanch  in  his 
belief  of  Mr.  Crawley's  guilt  than  any  one 
whom  Toogood  had  yet  encountered.  "  I  nev- 
er took  the  check  out  of  his  house,"  said  Mr. 
Soames.  "But  you  have  not  stated  that  on 
oath,"  said  Mr.  Toogood.  "  No,"  rejoined  the 
other ;  "and  I  never  will.  I  can't  swear  to  it ; 
but  yet  I'm  sure  of  it."  He  acknowledged  that 
he  had  been  driven  by  a  nvm  named  Scuttle, 
and  that  Scuttle  might  have  picked  up  the  check 
if  it  had  been  dropped  in  the  gig.  But  the 
check  had  not  been  dropped  in  the  gig.  The 
cheek  had  been  dropped  in  Mr.  Crawley's  house. 
"Why  did  he  say  then  that  I  paid  it  to  him?" 
said  Mr.  Soames,  when  IMr.  Toogood  spoke  con- 
fidently of  Crawley's  innocence.  "Ah,  why 
indeed?"  answered  Toogood.  "If  he  had  not 
been  fool  enough  to  do  that,  we  should  have 
been  saved  all  this  trouble.  All  the  same,  he 
did  not  steal  your  money,  Mr.  Soames  ;  and  Jem 
Scuttle  did  steal  it.  Unfortunately,  Jem  Scut- 
tle is  in  New  Zealand  by  this  time."  "Of 
course,  it  is  possible,"  said  j\Ir.  Soames,  as  he 
bowed  Mr.  Toogood  out.  Mr.  Soames  did  not 
like  Mr.  Toogood. 

That  evening  a  gentleman  with  a  red  nose 
asked  at  the  Barchester  station  for  a  second-class 
ticket  for  London  by  the  up  night-mail  train. 
He  was  well  known  at  the  station,  and  the  sta- 
tion-master made  some  little  inquiry.  "All 
the  way  to  London  to-night,  Mr.  Stringer  ?"  he 
said. 


322 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"Yes — all  the  way,"  said  the  red-nosed  man, 
sulkily. 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  better  go  to  London  to- 
night, Mr.  Stringer,"  said  a  tall  man,  stepping 
out  of  the  door  of  the  booking-oflicc.  "  I  tliink 
you'd  better  come  back  with  me  to  Earchestcr. 
I  do  indeed."  There  was  some  little  argument 
on  the  occasion ;  but  the  stranger,  who  was  a 
detective  policeman,  carried  his  point,  and  Mr. 
Dan  Stringer  did  return  to  Barchester. 


CHAPTER  LXXIIL 

THKUIC    IS    COMFORT    AT   PLUMSTEAD. 

Henry  Graxtlt  had  written  the  following 
short  letter  to  Mrs.  Grantly  when  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  pull  down  the  auctioneer's  bills  : 

"  Di;ar  Mother, — I  have  postponed  the  sale, 
not  liking  to  refuse  you  any  tiling.  As  far  as  I 
can  sec,  I  shall  still  be  forced  to  leave  Cosby 
Lodge,  as  I  certainly  shall  do  all  I  can  to  make 
Grace  Crawley  my  wife.  I  say  this  that  there 
may  be  no  misunderstanding  with  my  father. 
Tlie  auctioneer  has  promised  to  have  the  bills 
removed.  Your  affectionate  son, 

"Henry  Grantly.'' 

This  had  been  written  by  the  major  on  the 
Friday  before  Mr.  Walker  had  brought  up  to 
him  the  tidings  of  I\Ir.  Toogood  and  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin's  solution  of  the  Crawley  difiiculty ;  but  it 
did  not  reacli  riumstead  till  the  following  morn- 
ing Mrs.  Grantly  immediately  took  the  good 
nc'.v.s  about  the  sale  to  her  husband — not,  of 
course,  showing  him  the  letter,  being  far  too 
wise  for  that,  and  giving  him  credit  for  being  too 
wise  to  ask  for  it.  "Henry  has  arranged  with 
the  auctioneer,"  she  said,  joyfully ;  "and  the 
bills  have  been  all  pulled  down." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

'•  I've  just  heard  from  him.  He  has  told  me 
so.  Come,  my  dear,  let  me  have  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  you  say  that  things  shall  be  pleasant 
again  between  you  and  him      He  has  yielded." 

•'  I  don't  see  much  yielding  in  it." 

"  He  has  done  what  you  wanted.  What 
more  can  he  do?" 

"I  want  him  to  come  over  here,  and  take  an 
interest  in  things,  and  not  treat  me  as  though  I 
were  nobody."  Within  an  liour  of  this  the  ma- 
jor had  arrived  at  I'lumstead,  lailen  with  the 
story  of  Mrs.  Arahin  and  the  check,  and  of  Mr. 
Crawley's  innocence — laden  not  only  with  such 
tidings  as  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Walker, 
but  also  with  further  details,  which  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  Toogood.  For  he  had  come 
through  Barchester,  and  had  seen  Mr.  Toogood 
on  his  way.  This  was  on  the  Saturday  morn- 
ing, and  he  had  breakfasted  with  Mr.  Toogood 
at  "The  Dragon  of  Wantly."  Mr.  Toogood 
had  told  him  of  his  suspicions — how  the  red- 
nosed  man  had  been  stopped,  and  liad  been  sum- 
moned as  a  witness  for  jNIr.  Crawley's  trial — and 
how  he  was  now  under  the  surveillance  of  the  po- 


lice. Grantly  had  not  cared  very  much  about 
the  red-nosed  man,  confining  his  present  solici- 
tude to  the  question  whether  Grace  Crawley's 
father  would  certainly  be  shown  to  have  been 
innocent  of  the  theft.  "  There's  not  a  doubt 
about  it,  major,"  said  Mr.  Toogood;  "not  a 
doubt  on  earth.  But  we'd  better  be  a  little 
quiet  till  your  aunt  comes  home — just  a  little 
quiet.  She'll  be  here  in  a  day  or  two,  and  I 
won't  budge  till  she  comes."  In  spite  of  his  de- 
sire for  (luiesccnce  Mr.  Toogood  consented  to  a 
revelation  being  at  once  made  to  the  archdeacon 
and  Mrs.  Grantly.  "And  I'll  tell  you  what, 
major ;  as  soon  as  ever  Mrs.  Arabin  is  here,  and 
has  given  us  her  own  word  to  act  on,  you  and  I 
will  go  over  to  Hogglestock  and  astonish  them. 
I  should  like  to  go  myself,  because,  you  see, 
Mrs.  Crawley  is  my  cousin,  and  we  have  taken 
a  little  trouble  about  this  matter."  To  this  the 
major  assented ;  but  he  altogether  declined  to 
assist  in  Mr.  'J'oogood's  sijcculations  respecting 
the  unfortunate  Dan  Stringer.  It  was  agi-eed 
between  them  that  for  the  present  no  visit  should 
be  made  to  the  palace,  as  it  was  thought  that 
Mr.  Tiuimble  had  better  be  allowed  to  do  the 
Hogglestock  duties  on  the  next  Sunday.  As 
matters  went,  however,  Mr.  Tiuimble  did  not 
do  so.  He  had  paid  his  last  visit  to  Hoggle- 
stock. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  explain  here  that  the  un- 
fortunate Mr.  Snapper  was  constrained  to  go 
out  to  Hogglestock  on  the  Sunday  which  was 
now  approaching — which  fell  out  as  follows  :  It 
might  be  all  very  well  for  Mr.  Toogood  to  ar- 
range that  he  would  not  tell  this  person  or  that 
person  of  the  news  which  he  had  brought  down 
from  London ;  but  as  he  had  told  various  peo- 
ple in  Silverbridge,  as  he  had  told  Mr.  Soames, 
and  as  he  had  told  the  police  at  Barchester,  of 
course  the  tale  found  its  way  to  the  palace. 
Mr.  Thumble  heard  it,  and  having  come  by 
this  time  thoroughly  to  hate  Hogglestock  and 
all  that -belonged  to  it,  he  pleaded  to  Mr. 
Snapper  that  this  report  afforded  ample  rea- 
son why  he  need  not  again  visit  that  detest- 
able parish.  Mr.  Snapper  did  not  see  it  in  the 
same  light.  "You  may  be  sure  Mr.  Crawley 
will  not  get  into  the  pulpit  after  his  resignation, 
Mr.  Thumble,"  said  he. 

"His  resignation  means  nothing,"  said  Thum- 
ble. 

' '  It  means  a  great  deal,"  said  Snapper ;  "and 
the  duties  must  be  provided  for." 

"I  won't  provide  for  them,"  said  Thumble; 
"and  so  you  may  tell  the  bishop."  In  these 
days  Mr.  Thumble  was  very  angi-y  with  the 
bishop,  for  the  bishop  liad  not  yet  seen  him  since 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Proudie. 

Mr.  Snapper  had  no  alternative  but  to  go  to 
the  bishop.  The  bishop  in  these  days  was  very 
mild  to  those  whom  he  saw,  given  but  to  few 
words,  and  a  little  astray — as  though  he  had 
had  one  of  his  limbs  cut  off — as  Mr.  Snapper 
expressed  it  to  Mrs.  Snapper.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  felt  as  though  all  his  limbs  were  cut 
off,"  said  Mrs.  Snapper;   "you  must  give  him 


THE  LAST  CURONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


323 


time,  and  lie'll  come  round  by-and-by."  I  am 
imlined  to  think  that  Mrs.  Snapper's  opinion 
of  the  bishop's  feelings  and  condition  was  cor- 
rect. In  his  difficulty  respecting  Ilogglestock 
and  Mr.  Tlumible  Mr.  Snapper  went  to  the  bish- 
op, and  spoke  perhaps  a  little  harshly  of  ]\Ir. 
Tliumble. 

"  I  think,  upon  the  whole,  Snapper,  that  you 
had  better  go  yourself,"  said  tlie  bisiiop. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  my  lord  ?"  said  Snapper. 
"It  will  be  inconvenient." 

"  Every  thing  is  inconvenient;  but  you'd  bet- 
ter go.  And  look  here.  Snapper,  if  I  were  you, 
I  wouldn't  say  any  thing  out  at  Hogglestock 
about  the  check.  We  don't  know  what  it  may 
come  to  yet."  Mr.  Snapper,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
left  his  patron,  not  at  all  liking  the  task  that, 
was  before  him.  But  his  wife  encouraged  hint 
to  be  obedient.  He  was  the  owner  of  a  one- 
horse  carriage,  and  the  work  was  not,  therefore, 
so  hard  to  him  as  it  would  have  been  and  had 
been  to  poor  Mr.  Thumble.  And,  moreover, 
his  wife  promised  to  go  with  him.  Mr.  Snap- 
per and  Mrs.  Snapper  did  go  over  to  Hoggle- 
stock, and  the  duty  was  done.  Mrs.  Snapper 
spoke  a  word  or  two  to  Mrs.  Crawley,  and  Mv. 
Snapper  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  ^Ir.  Crawlev; 
but  not  a  word  was  said  about  the  new  news  as 
to  Mr.  Soames's  check,  whicli  were  now  almost 
current  in,  Barchester.  Indeed,  no  whisper  about 
it  had  as  yet  reached  Hogglestock. 

"  One  word  with  you,  reverend  Sir,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley  to  tlie  chaplain,  as  the  latter  was  com- 
ing out  of  tlie  church,  "  as  to  tiie  parish  work, 
Sir,  during  the  week — I  should  be  glad  if  you 
would  fovor  me  with  your  ojiiiiion." 

"  About  what,  Mv.  Crawley  ?" 

"Whether  you  think  that  I  may  be  allowed, 
witliout  scandal,  to  visit  the  sick,  and  to  give 
instruction  in  the  school." 

"  Surely — surely,  Mv.  Crawley.     Why  not  ?" 

"Mr.  Thumble  gave  me  to  understand  that 
the  bishop  was  very  urgent  that  I  should  inter- 
fere ill  no  way  in  the  ministrations  of  the  par- 
ish. Twice  did  he  enjoin  on  me  that  I  should 
not  interfere — unnecessarily,  as  it  seemed  to  me." 

"  Quite  unnecessaiy,"  said  Mr.  Snapper. 
"And  the  bishop  will  be  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Crawley,  if  you'll  just  see  that  the  things  go  on 
all  straight." 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  know  with  accu- 
racy what  his  idea  of  straightness  is,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley  to  his  wife.  "  It  may  be  that  things 
are  sti'aiglit  to  him  when  they  are  buried  as  it 
were  out  of  sight,  and  put  away  without  trouble. 
I  hope  it  be  not  so  with  the  bishop."  When 
he  went  into  his  school  and  remembered — as  he 
did  remember  through  every  minute  of  his  teach- 
ing— tliat  he  was  to  receive  no  portion  of  the 
poor  stipend  which  was  allotted  for  the  clerical 
duties  of  the  parish,  he  told  himself  that  there 
was  gross  injustice  in  the  way  in  which  things 
were  being  made  straight  at  Hogglestock. 

But  we  must  go  back  to  the  major  and  to  the 
archdeacon  at  Plumstead — in  which  comforta- 
ble parish  things  were  generally  made  straight 


more  easily  than  at  Ilogglestock.  Henry  Grant- 
ly  went  over  from  Barciiester  to  Plumstead  in  a 
gig  from  the  "Dragon,"  and  made  his  way  at 
once  into  his  father's  study.  The  archdeacon 
was  seated  there  with  sundry  manuscrij)ts  before 
him,  and  with  one  half-finished  manuscript — as 
was  his  wont  on  every  Saturday  morning.  "Hal- 
loo, Harry!"  he  said.  "I  didn't  expect  you  in 
the  least."  It  was  barely  an  hour  since  he  had 
told  Mrs.  Grantly  that  his  complaint  against  his 
son  was  that  he  wouldn't  come  and  make  him- 
self comfortable  at  the  rectory. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  giving  the  archdeacon  his 
hand,  "you  have  heard  nothing  yet  about  Mr. 
Crawley?" 

"No,"  said  the  archdeacon,  jumping  up; 
"  nothing  new — what  is  it  ?"  Many  ideas  about 
Mr.  Crawley  at  that  moment  flitted  across  the 
archdeacon's  mind.  Could  it  be  that  the  unfor- 
tunate man  had  committed  suicide,  overcome  by 
his  troubles? 

"  It  has  all  come  out.  He  got  the  check  from 
my  aunt." 

"From  your  aunt  Eleanor?" 

"  Yes ;  from  my  aunt  Eleanor.  She  has  tel- 
egraphed over  from  Venice  to  say  that  she  gave 
tlie  identical  check  to  Crawley.  That  is  all  we 
know  at  present — except  that  she  has  written  an 
account  of  the  matter  to  you,  and  that  she  will 
be  here  herself  as  quick  as  she  can  come." 

"  Who  got  the  message,  Henry?" 

"  Crawley's  lawyer — a  fellow  named  Toogood, 
a  cousin  of  his  wife's;  a  very  decent  fellow," 
added  the  major,  remembering  how  necessary 
it  was  that  he  should  reconcile  his  father  to  all 
the  Crawley  belongings.  "He's  to  be  over 
here  on  Monday,  and  then  will  arrange  what  is 
to  be  done." 

"  Done  in  wliat  way,  Henry  ?" 

"  Tlicre's  a  great  deal  to  be  done  yet.  Craw- 
ley does  not  know  himself  at  this  moment  how 
the  check  got  into  his  hands.  He  must  be  told, 
and  something  must  be  settled  about  the  living. 
They've  taken  the  living  away  from  him  among 
them.  And  then  the  indictment  must  be  quash- 
ed, or  somctjiing  of  that  kind  done.  Toogood 
has  got  hold  of  the  scoundrel  at  Barchester  who 
really  stole  the  check  from  Soames — or  thinks 
that  he  has.     It's  that  Dan  Stringer." 

"He's  got  hold  of  a  regular  scamp,  then.  I 
never  knew  any  good  of  Dan  Stringer,"  said  the 
archdeacon. 

Then  Mrs.  Grantly  was  told,  and  the  whole 
story  was  repeated  again,  with  many  expressions 
of  commiseration  in  reference  to  all  the  Craw- 
leys.  The  archdeacon  did  not  join  in  these  at 
first,  being  rather  shy  on  that  head.  It  was 
very  hard  for  him  to  have  to  speak  to  his  son 
about  the  Crawleys  as  though  they  were  people 
in  all  respects  estimable  and  well-conducted  and 
satisfactory.  Mrs.  Grantly  understood  this  so 
well  that  every  now  and  then  she  said  some  half- 
laughing  word  respecting  Mr.  Crawley's  pecul- 
iarities, feeling  tliat  in  tliis  way  she  might  ease 
her  husband's  difficulties.  "He  must  be  the 
oddest  man  that  ever  lived,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly, 


324 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


"  not  to  have  known  where  he  got  tlic  check." 
The  archdeacon  shook  his  head  and  rubbed  his 
hands  as  he  walked  about  the  room.  "I  sup- 
pose too  much  learning  has  upset  him,"  said  the 
archdeacon.  "Tiiey  say  he's  not  very  good  at 
talking  English,  but  put  him  on  in  Greek  and 
he  never  sto])s." 

The  archdeacon  was  perfectly  aware  that  he 
liad  to  admit  Mr.  Crawley  to  his  good-will,  and 
tliat  as  for  Grace  Crawley,  it  was  essentially  nec- 
essary that  she  should  bo  admitted  to  his  lieart 
of  hearts.  He  had  jjroniised  as  much.  It  must 
be  acknowledged  tliat  Archdeacon  Grantly  al- 
ways kept  his  promises,  and  csi)ecially  sucli 
promises  as  these.  And  indeed  it  was  tiie  na- 
ture of  the  man  that  when  he  had  been  very  an- 
gry with  those  lie  loved  he  should  be  nniiap])y 
until  he  had  found  some  escai)e  from  his  anger. 
He  could  not  endure  to  have  to  own  himself  to 
have  been  in  tlie  wrong,  but  he  could  be  con- 
tent with  a  very  incomplete  recognition  of  his 
having  been  in  the  right.  The  posters  had  been 
pulled  down,  and  Mr.  Crawley,  as  he  was  now 
told,  had  not  stolen  the  clieck.  Tliat  was  suf- 
ficient. If  his  son  would  only  drink  a  glass  or 
two  of  wine  with  him  comfortably,  and  talk  du- 
tifully about  the  Plumstead  foxes,  all  should  be 
held  to  be  right,  and  Grace  Crawley  should  be 
received  with  lavish  paternal  embraces.  The 
archdeacon  had  kissed  Grace  once,  and  felt  that 
he  could  do  so  again  without  an  unpleasant 
strain  upon  his  feelings. 

"  Say  something  to  your  father  about  the 
property  after  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly  to  her 
son  when  they  were  alone  together. 

"About  what  property?" 

"About  this  property,  or  any  property;  you 
know  what  I  mean — sometliing  to  show  that 
you  arc  interested  about  his  affairs.  He  is  do- 
ing the  best  he  can  to  make  things  right."  Aft-/ 
er  dinner,  over  the  claret,  Mr.  Thome's  terrible 
sin  in  reference  to  the  trapjjing  of  foxes  was  ac- 
cordingly again  brought  up,  and  the  archdeacon 
became  beautifully  irate,  and  expressed  his  ani- 
mosity— which  he  did  not  in  tlie  least  feel — 
against  an  old  friend  witli  an  energy  which 
would  have  delighted  his  wife  if  she  could  have 
heard  him.  "  I  shall  tell  Thorne  my  mind, 
certainly.  He  and  I  are  very  old  fiiends ;  we 
have  known  eacli  other  all  our  lives  ;  but  I  can 
not  ]mt  up  with  this  kind  of  thing — and  I  will 
not.  It's  all  because  he's  afraid  of  his  own 
game-keeper."  And  yet  the  arclideacon  had 
never  ridden  after  a  fox  in  his  life,  and  never 
meant  to  do  so.  Nor  had  he  in  truth  been  al- 
ways so  very  anxious  that  foxes  should  be  found 
in  his  covers.  That  fox  which  had  been  so  for- 
tunately trapped  just  outside  the  I'lumstead 
property  afforded  a  most  pleasant  escape  for  tlie 
steam  of  his  anger.  When  he  began  to  talk  to 
his  wife  that  evening  about  Mr.  Thome's  wicked 
game-keeper  she  Avas  so  sure  that  all  was  right 
that  she  said  a  word  of  her  extreme  desire  to 
see  Grace  Crawley. 

"  If  he  is  to  marry  her,  we  might  as  well  have 
her  over  here,"  said  the  archdeacon. 


"That's  just  what  I  was  thinking,'" said  Mrs. 
Grantly.  And  thus  things  at  the  rectory  got 
themselves  arranged. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  the  expected  letter 
from  Venice  came  to  hand,  and  was  read  on 
that  morning  very  anxiously,  not  only  by  Mrs. 
Grantly  and  tlie  major,  but  by  the  archdeacon 
•hlso,  in  spite  of  the  sanctity  of  the  day.  Indeed 
the  archdeacon  had  been  veiy  stoutly  anti-sab- 
batarial  when  the  question  of  stopping  the  Sun- 
day post  to  Plumstead  had  been  mooted  in  the 
village,  giving  those  who  on  that  occasion  were 
the  sjiecial  friends  of  the  ])Ostman  to  understand 
that  he  considered  them  to  be  numbsculls,  and 
little  better  than  idiots.  The  postman,  finding 
the  parson  to  be  against  him,  had  seen  that  there 
was  no  chance  for  him,  and  had  allowed  the 
matter  to  drop.  Mrs.  Arabin's  letter  was  long 
and  eager,  and  full  of  repetitions,  but  it  did  ex- 
]jlain  clearly  to  them  the  exact  manner  in  which 
the  check  had  found  its  way  into  Mr.  Crawley's 
hand.  "Francis  came  nj)  to  me,"  she  said  in 
her  letter — Francis  being  her  husband,  tlie  dean 
— "  and  asked  me  for  the  money,  which  I  had 
promised  to  make  np  in  a  packet.  The  packet 
was  not  ready,  and  he  would  not  wait,  declar- 
ing that  Mr.  Crawley  was  in  such  a  flurry  that 
he  did  not  like  to  leave  him.  I  was  therefore 
to  bring  it  down  to  the  door.  I  went  to  my 
desk,  and  thinking  that  I  could  spare  the  twenty 
pounds  as  well  as  the  fifty,  I  put  the  check  into 
the  envelope,  together  with  the  notes,  and  handed 
the  packet  to  Francis  at  the  door.  I  think  I 
told  Francis  afterward  that  I  put  seventy  pounds 
into  the  envelope,  instead  of  fift}',  but  of  this  I 
will  not  be  sure.  At  any  rate,  Mr.  Crnwki/  cjot 
il//-.  Soames's  check  from  me."  These  last  words 
she  underscored,  and  then  went  on  to  explain 
how  the  check  had  been  paid  to  her  a  short  time 
before  by  Dan  Stringer. 

"  Then  Toogood  has  been  right  about  the  fel- 
low," said  the  archdeacon. 

"  I  hope  they'll  hang  him,"  said  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly. "He  must  have  known  all  the  time  what 
dreadful  misery  he  was  bringing  upon  this  un- 
fortunate family." 

"I  don't  suppose  Dan  Stringer  cared  much 
about  that,"  said  the  major. 

"Not  a  straw,"  said  the  archdeacon,  and  then 
all  hurried  off  to  churcli ;  and  the  arclideacon 
preached  tlie  sermon  in  the  fabrication  of  which 
he  had  been  interrupted  by  his  son,  and  which 
therefore  barely  enabled  him  to  turn  the  quarter 
of  an  hour  from  the  giving  out  of  his  text.  It 
was  his  constant  practice  to  pi'each  for  full  twen- 
ty minutes. 

As  Barchester  lay  on  the  direct  road  from 
Plumstead  to  Hogglestock,  it  was  thought  well 
that  word  should  be  sent  to  Mr.  Toogood,  desir- 
ing him  not  to  come  out  to  Plumstead  on  the 
Monday  morning.  Major  Grantly  projioscd  to 
call  for  him  at  "  The  Dragon,"  and  to  take  him 
on  from  thence  to  Hogglestock.  "Ydu  had 
better  take  your  mother's  horses  all  through," 
said  the  archdeacon.  The  distance  was  very 
nearly  twenty  miles,  and  it  was  felt  both  by  the 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


325 


mother  and  the  son  that  the  archdeacon  must 
be  in  a  good  liumor  when  he  made  such  a  i)rop- 
osition  as  that.  It  was  not  often  that  the  rec- 
tory carriage-horses  were  allowed  to  make  long 
journeys.  A  run  into  Barchester  and  back, 
which  altogether  was  under  ten  miles,  was  gen- 
erally tlie  extent  of  their  work.  "I  meant  to 
have  posted  from  Barchester,"  said  the  major. 
You  may  as  well  take  the  liorses  througli," 
said  the  archdeacon.  "Your  mother  will  not 
want  them.  And  I  suppose  you  might  as  well 
bring  your  friend  Toogood  back  to  dinner.  We'll 
give  him  a  bed." 

"He  must  be  a  good  sort  of  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly;  "fori  suppose  he  has  done  all  this 
for  love?" 

"Yes ;  and  spent  a  lot  of  money  out  of  his 
own  pocket  too !"  said  the  major,  enthusiastical- 
ly. "And  the  joke  of  it  is,  that  he  has  been 
defending  Crawley  in  Crawley's  teeth.  Mr. 
Crawley  had  refused  to  employ  counsel ;  but 
Toogood  had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  bai'- 
rister,  on  purpose  that  there  miglit  be  a  fuss 
about  it  in  court.  He  thought  that  it  would 
tell  with  til e  jury  in  Crawley's  favor." 

"Bring  him  here,  and  we'll  hear  all  about 
that  from  iiimself,"  said  the  archdeacon.  The 
major,  before  he  started,  told  his  mother  tiiat 
he  should  call  at  Framley  Parsonage  on  his  way 
back ;  but  he  said  nothing  on  this  subject  to 
his  father. 

"  I'll  write  to  her  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly,  "  and  we'll  have  things  settled  pleas- 
antly." 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

THE    CRAAVLETS    ARE    INFORMED. 

Major  Grantly  made  an  early  start,  know- 
ing that  he  had  a  long  day's  work  before  him. 
He  had  written  overnight  to  Mr.  Toogood,  nam- 
ing the  hour  at  which  he  would  reach  "The 
Dragon,"  and  was  thoi-e  punctual  to  the  moment. 
When  the  attorney  came  out  and  got  into  the 
open  carriage,  while  the  groom  held  the  steps 
for  him,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  respect 
in  whicli  lie  was  held  at  "The  Dragon"  was 
greatly  increased.  It  was  already  known  that 
he  was  going  to  Plumstead  that  night,  and  it  was 
partly  understood  that  he  was  engaged  with  the 
Grantly  and  Arabin  faction  in  defending  Mr./ 
Crawley  the  clergyman  against  the  Proudie  fac- 
tion. Dan  Stringer,  who  was  still  at  the  inn, 
as  he  saw  his  enemy  get  into  the  Plumstead 
carriage,  felt  himself  to  be  one  of  tlie  palace 
party,  and  felt  that  if  Mrs.  Proudie  had  only 
lived  till  after  the  assizes  all  this  heavy  trouble 
would  not  liave  befallen  him.  The  waiter  with 
the  dirty  napkin  stood  at  the  door  and  bowed, 
thinking  perhaps  that  as  the  Proudie  party  was 
going  down  in  Barchester,  it  might  be  as  well  to 
be  civil  to  Mr.  Toogood.  The  days  of  the  String- 
ers were  probably  drawing  to  a  close  at  "The 
Dragon  of  Wantly,"  and  there  was  no  knowing 
who  might  be  the  new  landlord. 


Henry  Grantly  and  the  lawyer  found  very 
little  to  say  to  each  other  on  tlicir  long  way  out 
to  Ilogglestock.  They  were  thinking,  probably, 
much  of  the  coming  interview,  and  hardly  knew 
how  to  express  their  thoughts  to  each  other. 
"I  will  not  take  tlie  carriage  up  to  the  hou.se," 
said  the  major,  as  they  were  entering  the  parisli 
of  Ilogglestock ;  "  particularly  as  the  man  must 
feed  the  horses."  So  they  got  out  at  a  farm- 
house about  half  a  mile  from  the  church,  wliere 
the  oft'cnse  of  the  carriage  and  livery-servant 
would  be  well  out  of  Mr.  Crawley's  sight,  and 
from  thence  walked  toward  the  jiarsonage.  The 
ciuirch,  and  the  school  close  to  it,  lay  on  their 
way,  and  as  they  passed  by  the  school  door  they 
heard  voices  within.  "I'll  bet  twopence  he's 
there,"  said  Toogood.  "Tliey  tell  me  he's 
always  either  in  one  shop  or  the  otlier.  I'll  slip 
in  and  bring  him  out."  Mr.  Toogood  had  as- 
sumed a  comfortable  air,  as  though  the  day's 
work  was  to  be  good  pastime,  and  even  made 
occasional  attempts  at  drollery.  He  had  had 
his  jokes  about  Dan  Stringer,  and  had  attempted 
to  describe  the  absurdities  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
visit  to  Bedford  Row.  All  this  would  have  an- 
gered the  major,  had  he  not  seen  that  it  was  as- 
sumed to  cover  something  below  of  which  Mr. 
Toogood  was  a  little  ashamed,  but  of  which,  as 
the  major  tiiought,  Mr.  Toogood  had  no  cause 
to  be  ashamed.  When,  therefore,  Toogood  pro- 
posed to  go  into  the  school  and  bring  IMr.  Craw- 
ley out,  as  though  the  telling  of  their  story  would 
be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world,  the  major  did 
not  stop  him.  Indeed  he  had  no  plan  of  his 
own  ready.  His  mind  was  too  intent  on  the 
tragedy  which  had  occurred,  and  whicli  was  now 
to  be  brought  to  a  close,  to  enable  him  to  form 
any  plan  as  to  the  best  way  of  getting  up  the 
last  scene.  So  Mr.  Toogood,  with  quick  and 
easy  steps,  entered  the  school,  leaving  the  ma- 
jor still  standing  in  the  road.  Mr.  Crawley 
was  in  the  school — as  was  also  Jane  Crawley. 
"So  here  yon  are,"  said  Toogood.  "That's 
fortunate.     I  hope  I  find  yon  pretty  well  ?" 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken  in  the  identity,  my 
wife's  relative,  Mr.  Toogood  ?"  said  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, stepping  down  from  his  humble  desk. 

"Just  so,  my  friend,"  said  Toogood,  with  his 
hand  extended,  "just  so;  and  there's  another 
gentleman  outside  wlio  wants  to  have  a  word 
witli  you  also.  Perhaps  you  won't  mind  step- 
ping out.  These  are  the  young  Hogglestockians, 
are  they  ?" 

The  young  Hogglestockians  stared  at  him, 
and  so  did  Jane.  Jane,  who  had  before  heard 
of  him,  did  not  like  him  at  first  sight,  seeing 
that  her  father  was  clearly  displeased  by  the 
tone  of  the  visitor's  address.  Mr.  Crawley  was 
dis])leased.  There  was  a  familiarity  about  Mr. 
Toogood  which  made  him  sore,  as  having  been 
exhibited  before  his  pupils.  "  If  you  will  be 
pleased  to  step  out.  Sir,  I  will  follow  yon,"  he 
said,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  door.  "  Jane, 
my  dear,  if  you  will  remain  with  the  children, 
I  will  return  to  you  presently.  Bobby  Studge 
has  failed  in  saving  his  Belief.     You  had  bet- 


326 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


ter  set  him  on  again  from  the  beginning.  Now, 
Mr.  Toogood."  And  again  he  waved  with  his 
hand  toward  the  door. 

"  So  that's  my  young  cousin,  is  it  ?"  said  Too- 
good,  stretcliingover  and  just  managing  to  touch 
Jane's  fingers — of  which  act  of  touching  Jane 
was  very  diary.  Tiien  lie  went  forth,  and  Jlr. 
Crawley  followed  him.  There  was  the  major 
standing  in  the  road,  and  Toogood  was  anxious 
to  be  the  first  to  communicate  the  good  news. 
It  was  the  only  reward  he  had  projiosed  to  him- 
self for  the  money  he  had  expended  and  the 
time  he  had  lost  and  the  trouble  he  had  taken. 
"It's  all  right,  old  fellow!"  he  said,  clapping 
his  hand  on  Crawley's  shoulder.  "We've  got 
the  right  sow  by  the  ear  at  last.  We  know  all 
about  it."  Mr.  Crawley  could  hardly  remember 
the  time  when  he  had  been  called  an  old  fellow 
last,  and  now  he  did  not  like  it ;  nor,  in  the 
confusion  of  his  mind,  could  he  understand  the 
allusion  to  the  right  sow.  He  sujjposed  that 
Mr.  Toogood  had  come  to  him  about  his  trial, 
but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  lawyer 
might  be  bringing  him  news  which  might  make 
the  trial  altogether  unnecessary.  "If  my  eyes 
are  not  mistaken,  there  is  my  friend,  Major 
Grantly,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"There  he  is,  as  large  as  life,"  said  Toogood. 
"But  stop  a  moment  before  you  go  to  him,  and 
give  me  your  hand.  I  must  have  the  first 
shake  of  it."  Hereupon  Crawley  extended  his 
hand.  "That's  right.  And  now  let  me  tell 
you  we  know  all  about  the  check — Soamcs's 
check.  We  know  where  you  got  it.  We  know 
who  stole  it.  We  know  how  it  came  to  the  per- 
son who  gave  it  to  you.  It's  all  very  well  talk- 
ing, but  when  you're  in  trouble  always  go  to  a 
lawyer." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Crawley  Avas  looking  full 
into  Mr.  Toogood's  face,  and  seeing  that  his 
cousin's  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears,  began 
to  get  some  insight  into  the  man's  character,  and 
also  some  very  dim  insight  into  the  facts  which 
the  man  intended  to  communicate  to  himself. 
"I  do  not  as  yet  fully  understand  you,  Sir," 
said  he,  "  being  perhaps  in  such  matters  some- 
what dull  of  intellect,  but  it  seemeth  to  me  that 
you  are  a  messenger  of  glad  tidings,  whose  feet 
are  beautiful  upon  the  mountains." 

"Beautiful!"  said  Toogood.  "By  George, 
I  should  tiiink  they  are  beautiful!  Don't  you 
hear  me  tell  you  that  we  have  found  out  all 
about  the  check,  and  that  you're  as  right  as  a 
trivet?"  They  were  still  on  the  little  causeway 
leading  from  the  school  up  to  the  road,  and 
Henry  Grantly  was  waiting  for  them  at  the 
small  wicket-gate.  "Mr.  Crawley,"  said  the 
major,  "I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart. 
I  could  not  but  accompany  my  friend,  Mr.  Too- 
good,  wlien  he  brought  you  this  good  news." 

"I  do  not  even  yet  altogether  comprehend 
what  has  been  told  to  me,"  said  Crawley,  now 
standing  out  on  the  road  between  the  other  two 
men.  "  I  am  doubtless  dull — very  dull.  May 
I  beg  some  clearer  word  of  explanation  before 
I  ask  you  to  go  with  me  to  my  wife  ?" 


I    "The  check  was  given  to.  you  by  my  aunt 
Eleanor." 

"Your  aunt  Eleanor!"  said  Crawley,  now 
altogether  in  the  clouds.  Who  was  the  major's 
aunt  Eleanor?  Though  he  had,  no  doubt,  at 
different  times  heard  all  the  circumstances  of 
the  connection,  he  had  never  realized  the  fact 
that  his  daughter's  lover  was  the  nephew  of  his 
old  friend,  Arabin. 

"Yes;  by  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Arabin."  ■ 

"She  put  it  into  the  envelope  with  the  notes,"  I 
said  Toogood — "slipped  it  in  without  saying  a 
word  to  any  one.  I  never  heard  of  a  woman 
doing  such  a  mad  thing  in  my  life  before.  If 
she  had  died,  or  if  we  hadn't  caught  her,  where 
should  we  all  have  been  ?  Not  but  what  I  think 
I  should  have  run  Dan  Stringer  to  ground  too, 
and  worked  it  out  of  him." 
/  "  Then,  after  all,  it  was  given  to  me  by  the 
dean?"  said  Crawley,  drawing  himself  up. 

"  It  was  in  the  envelope,  but  the  dean  did  not 
know  it,"  said  the  major. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "  I  was 
sure  of  it.  I  knew  it.  Weak  as  my  mind  may 
be — and  at  times  it  is  very  weak — I  was  certain 
that  I  could  not  have  erred  in  such  a  matter. 
The  more  I  struggled  with  my  memory,  the 
more  fixed  with  me  became  the  fact — which  I 
had  forgotten  but  for  a  moment — that  the  doc- 
ument had  formed  a  part  of  that  small  packet 
handed  to  me  by  the  dean.  But  look  you,  Sirs 
— bear  with  me  yet  for  a  moment.  I  said  that 
it  was  so,  and  the  dean  denied  it." 

"The  dean  did  not  know  it,  man,"  said  Too-, 
good,  almost  in  a  passion. 

"Bear  with  me  yet  a  while.  So  far  have  I 
been  from  misdoubting  the  dean — whom  I  have 
long  known  to  be  in  all  things  a  true  and  honest 
gentleman — that  I  postponed  the  elaborated  re- 
sult of  my  own  memory  to  his  word.  And  I  felt 
myself  the  more  constrained  to  do  this,  because, 
in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness,  in  the  wantonness 
of  inconsiderate  haste,  with  wicked  thoughtless- 
ness, I  had  allowed  myself  to  make  a  false  state- 
ment, unwittingly  false,  indeed,  nathless  very 
false,  unpardonably  false.  I  had  declared,  with- 
out thinking,  that  the  money  had  come  to  me 
from  the  hands  of  Mr.  Soames,  thereby  seeming 
to  cast  a  reflection  upon  that  gentleman.  When 
I  had  been  guilty  of  so  great  a  blunder,  of  so 
gross  a  violation  of  that  ordinary  care  which 
should  govern  all  words  between  man  and  man, 
especially  when  any  question  of  money  may  be 
in  doubt  —  how  could  I  expect  that  any  one 
should  accept  my  statement  when  contravened 
by  that  made  by  the  dean?  How,  in  such  an 
embarrassment,  could  I  believe  my  own  memory? 
Gentlemen,  I  did  not  believe  my  own  memory. 
Though  all  the  little  circumstances  of  that  en- 
velope, with  its  rich  but  perilous  freightage, 
came  back  upon  me  from  time  to  time  with  an 
exactness  that  has  appeared  to  me  to  be  almost 
marvelous,  yet  I  have  told  myself  that  it  was 
not  so !  Gentlemen,  if  you  please,  we  will  go 
into  the  house  ;  my  wife  is  there,  and  should  no 
longer  be  left  in  suspense."     They  passed  on  in 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


327 


silence  for  a  few  steps,  till  Crawley  spoke  again  : 
*'  Perhaps  you  will  allow  nie  the  privilege  to 
be  alone  with  her  for  one  minute — but  for  a  min- 
ute. Her  thanks  shall  not  be  delayed,  where 
thanks  are  so  richly  due." 

"Of  course,"  said  Toogood,  wiping  his  eyes 
with  a  large  red  bandana  handkerchief.  "  By  all 
means.  We'll  take  a  little  walk.  Come  along, 
major."  The  major  had  turned  his  foce  away, 
and  he  also  was  weeping.  "  By  George !  I 
never  heard  such  a  thing  in  all  my  life,"  said 
Toogood,  "I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  if  I 
hadn't  seen  it.  I  wouldn't,  indeed.  If  I  were 
to  tell  that  up  in  London  nobody  would  believe 
me." 

" I  call  that  man  a  hero,"  said  Grantly. 

*'I  don't  know  about  being  a  hero.  I  never 
quite  knew  what  makes  a  hero  if  it  isn't  having 
three  or  four  girls  dying  in  love  for  you  at  once. 
But  to  find  a  man  who  was  going  to  let  every 
thing  in  the  world  go  against  him  because  he 
believed  another  fellow  better  than  himself! 
There's  many  a  chap  thinks  another  man  is 
wool-gathering;  but  this  man  has  thought  he 
was  wool-gathering  himself!  It's  not  natural; 
and  the  world  wouldn't  go  on  if  there  were  many 
like  that.  He's  beckoning,  and  we  had  better 
go  in." 

Mr.  Toogood  went  first,  and  the  major  fol- 
lowed him.  When  they  entered  the  front  door 
they  saw  the  skirt  of  a  woman's  dress  flitting 
away  through  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
and  on  entering  the  room  to  the  left  they  found 
Mr.  Crawley  alone.  "She  has  fled,  as  though 
from  an  enemy,"  he  said,  with  a  little  attempt 
at  a  laugh;  "but  I  will  pursue  her  and  bring 
her  back." 

"  No,  Crawley,  no,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  She's 
a  little  upset,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  We 
know  what  women  are.     Let  her  alone." 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Toogood ;  but  then  she  would  be 
angered  with  herself  afterward,  and  would  lack 
the  comfort  of  having  spoken  a  word  of  gratitude. 
Pardon  me.  Major  Grantly  :  but  I  would  not 
have  you  leave  us  till  she  has  seen  you.  It  is 
as  her  cousin  says.  She  is  somewhat  overex- 
cited. But  still  it  will  be  best  that  she  should 
see  yon.     Gentlemen,  you  will  excuse  me." 

Then  he  went  out  to  fetch  his  wife,  and  while 
he  was  away  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Tiie  ma- 
jor looked  out  of  one  window  and  Mr.  Toogood 
out  of  tlie  other,  and  they  waited  patiently  till 
they  heard  the  coming  steps  of  the  husband  and 
wife.  When  the  door  was  opened  Mr.  Crawley 
appeared,  leading  his  wife  by  the  hand.  "  My 
dear,"  he  said,  "you  know  Major  Grantly. 
This  is  your  cousin,  Mr.  Toogood.  It  is  welli 
that  you  know  him  too,  and  remember  his  greati 
kindness  to  us."  But  Mrs.  Crawley  could  not 
speak.  She  could  only  sink  on  the  sofa  and 
hide  her  face,  while  she  strove  in  vain  to  repress 
her  sobs.  She  had  been  very  strong  through 
all  her  husband's  troubles — very  strong  in  bear- 
ing for  him  what  he  could  not  bear  for  himself, 
and  in  fighting  on  his  belialf  battles  in  which  he 
was  altogether  unable  to  couch  a  lance  ;  but  the 


endurance  of  so  many  troubles,  and  the  great 
ovei'whelming  sorrow  at  last,  had  so  nearly  over- 
powered her  that  she  could  not  sustain  the 
shock  of  this  turn  in  their  fortunes.  "  Slie  was 
never  like  this.  Sirs,  when  ill  news  came  to  us," 
said  Mr,  Crawley,  standing  somewhat  apart  from 
her. 

The  major  sat  himself  by  her  side,  and  put 
his  hand  upon  hers,  and  whispered  some  word 
to  her  about  her  daughter.  Upon  this  she  threw 
her  arms  around  him,  and  kissed  his  face,  and 
tlien  his  hands,  and  tlien  looked  up  into  his 
face  tlirough  her  tears.  She  murmured  some 
few  words,  or  attempted  to  do  so.  I  doubt 
whether  the  major  understood  their  meaning, 
but  he  knew  very  well  what  was  in  her  heart. 

"  And  now  I  think  we  might  as  well  be  mov- 
ing," said  Mr.  Toogood.  "I'll  see  about  hav- 
ing the  indictment  quashed.  I'll  arrange  all 
that  with  Walker.  It  may  be  necessary  that 
you  should  go  into  Barchester  the  first  day  the 
judges  sit ;  and  if  so  I'll  come  and  fetch  you. 
You  may  be  sure  I  won't  leave  the  place  till  it's 
all  square." 

As  they  were  going,  Grantly — speaking  now 
altogether  with  indifference  as  to  Toogood's  pres- 
ence— asked  Mr.  Crawley's  leave  to  be  the  bear- 
er of  these  tidings  to  his  daughter. 

"  She  can  hear  it  in  no  tones  that  can  be  more 
grateful  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

' '  I  shall  ask  her  for  nothing  for  myself  now," 
said  Grantly.  "It  would  be  ungenerous.  But 
hereafter— in  a  few  days — when  she  shall  be 
more  at  ease,  may  I  then  use  your  permis- 
sion—  ?" 

"  Major  Grantly, "  said  Mr.  Crawley,  solemn- 
ly, "I  respect  you  so  highly,  and  esteem  you  so 
thoroughly,  that  I  give  willingly  that  which  you 
ask.  If  my  daughter  can  bring  herself  to  regard 
you  as  a  woman  should  regard  her  husband, 
with  the  love  that  can  worship  and  cling  and  l)e 
constant,  she  will,  I  think,  have  a  fair  promise 
of  worldly  happiness.  And  for  you.  Sir,  in  giv- 
ing to  you  my  girl — if  so  it  be  that  she  is  given 
to  you — I  shall  bestow  upon  you  a  great  treas- 
ure." Had  Grace  been  a  king's  daughter,  with 
a  queen's  dowry,  the  permission  to  address  her 
could  not  have  been  imparted  to  her  lover  with 
a  more  thorough  appreciation  of  the  value  of  the 
privilege  conferred. 

"  He  is  a  rum  'un,"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  as  they 
got  into  the  carriage  together;  "but  they  say 
he's  a  very  good  'un  to  go." 

After  their  departure  Jane  was  sent  for,  tliat 
she  might  hear  the  family  news ;  and  when  she 
expressed  some  feeling  not  altogether  in  favor 
of  Mr.  Toogood  Mr.  Crawley  thus  strove  to  cor- 
rect her  views:  "He  is  a  man,  my  dear,  who 
conceals  a  warm  heart,  and  an  active  spirit, 
and  healthy  sympathies  under  an  aff'ected  jocu- 
larity of  manner,  and  almost  with  a  touch  of  as- 
sumed vulgarity.  But  when  the  jewel  itself  is 
good,  any  fault  in  the  casket  may  bo  forgiven." 

"Then,  papa,  the  next  time  I  see  him  I'll  like 
him — if  I  cnn,"  said  Jane. 

The  village  of  Framlcy  lies  slightly  off"  the 


328 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


road  from  Ilogglcstock  to  Barchestcr — so  much 
so  as  to  add  ])crh:ips  a  mile  to  tlie  journey  if  the 
traveler  goes  by  tiic  par.sonaj;e  gate.  On  their 
route  to  Ilogglcstock  our  two  travelers  had 
passed  Framley  without  visiting;  the  village,  hut 
on  the  return  journey  tlie  major  asked  Mr.  Too- 
good's  penuission  to  make  the  deviation.  "I'm 
not  in  a  hurry,"  said  Toogood.  "I  never  was 
more  comfortable  in  my  life.  I'll  just  light  a 
cigar  while  you  go  in  and  see  your  friends." 
Toogood  lit  his  cigar,  and  the  major,  getting 
down  from  the  carriage,  entered  the  parsonage. 
It  was  his  fortune  to  lind  Grace  alone.  Kobarts 
was  in  Barchester,  and  Mrs.  Kobarts  was  across 
the  road,  at  Lufton  Court.  "Miss  Crawley 
was  certainly  in,"  the  servant  told  him,  and  he 
soon  found  himself  in  jMiss  Crawley's  presence. 

"  I  have  only  called  to  tell  you  the  news  about 
your  father,"  said  he. 

"What  news?" 

"  We  have  just  come  from  Hogglcstock — j'our 
cousin,  Mr.  Toogood,  that  is,  and  myself.  They 
h.ave  found  out  all  about  the  check.  My  aunt, 
Mrs.  Arabin,  the  dean's  wife,  you  know — she 
gave  it  to  your  father." 

"Oil,  Major  Grantly!" 

"  It  seems  so  easily  settled,  does  it  not?" 

"And  is  it  settled?" 

"Yes;  everything.  Every  thing  about  that." 
Now  he  had  hold  of  her  hand  as  if  he  were  go- 
ing. "  Good-by.  I  told  your  father  that  I 
would  just  call  and  tell  you." 

"It  seems  almost  more  than  I  can  believe." 

"  You  may  believe  it ;  indeed  you  may.  He 
still  held  her  hand.  "  You  will  write  to  your 
mother  I  dare  say  to-night.  Tell  her  I  was 
here.     Good-by  now." 

"Good-by,"  slie  said.  Her  hand  was  still 
in  his  as  she  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  Dear,  dear,  dearest  Grace !  My  darling 
Grace !"  Then  he  took  her  into  his  arms  and 
kissed  her,  and  went  his  way  without  another 
word,  feeling  that  he  had  kept  his  word  to  her 
father  like  a  gentleman.  Grace,  when  she  was 
left  alone,  thought  that  she  was  tlie  happiest 
gii  1  in  Christendom.  If  she  could  only  get  to  her 
mother,  and  tell  every  thing,  and  be  told  every 
tiling  I  She  had  no  idea  of  any  promise  that 
her  lover  might  have  made  to  her  father,  nor 
did  she  make  inquiry  of  her  own  thoughts  as  to 
his  reasons  for  staying  with  her  so  short  a  time ; 
but  looking  back  at  it  all  she  thought  his  con- 
duct had  been  perfect. 

In  the  mean  time  the  major,  with  Mr.  Too- 
good,  was  driven  home  to  dinner  at  Barchester. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

siadalina's  ueakt  is  bleeding. 

John  Eames,  as  soon  as  he  had  left  Mrs. 
Arabin  at  the  liotel  and  had  taken  his  traveling- 
bag  to  his  own  lodgings,  started  off  for  his  uncle 
Toogood's  house.  There  he  found  Mrs.  Too- 
good,  not  in  the  most  serene  state  of  mind  as 


to  her  husband's  absence.  Mr.  Toogood  had 
now  been  at  Barchester  for  the  best  part  of  a 
week,  spending  a  good  deal  of  money  at  the 
inn.  Mrs.  Toogood  was  quite  sure  that  he  must 
be  doing  that.  Indeed,  how  could  he  help  him- 
self? Johnny  remarked  that  he  did  not  see 
how  in  such  circumstances  his  uncle  was  to  help 
hiniself.  And  then  Mr.  Toogood  had  only  writ- 
ten one  short  sera])  of  a  letter — just  three  words, 
and  they  were  written  in  triumiih.  "  Crawley 
is  all  right,  and  I  think  I've  got  the  real  Simon 
Ture  by  the  heels."  "  It's  all  very  well,  John," 
Mrs.  Toogood  said;  "and  of  course  it  would 
be  a  terrible  thing  to  the  family  if  any  body  con- 
nected with  it  were  made  out  to  be  a  thief."  "  It 
would  be  (juite  dreadful,"  said  Johnny.  "Not 
that  I  ever  looked  upon  the  Crawleys  as  con- 
nections of  ours.  But,  however,  let  that  pass. 
I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad  that  your  uncle  should 
have  been  able  to  be  of  service  to  them.  But 
there's  reason  in  the  roasting  of  eggs,  and  I 
can  tell  you  that  money  is  not  so  plenty  in  this 
house  that  your  uncle  can  afford  to  throw  it 
into  the  Barchester  gutters.  Think  what  twelve 
children  are,  John.  It  might  be  all  very  well 
if  Toogood  were  a  bachelor,  and  if  some  lord 
had  left  him  a  fortune."  John  Eames  did  not 
stay  very  long  in  Tavistock  Square.  His  cousins 
Polly  and  Lucy  were  gone  to  the  jday  with  Mr. 
Summerkin,  and  liis  aunt  was  not  in  one  of  her 
best  humors.  He  took  his  uncle's  part  as  well 
as  he  could,  and  then  left  Mrs.  Toogood.  The 
little  allusion  to  Lord  De  Guest's  generosity  had 
not  been  pleasant  to  him.  It  seemed  to  rob 
him  of  all  his  own  merit.  lie  had  been  rather 
prood  of  his  journey  to  Italy,  having  contrived 
to  spend  nearly  forty  pounds  in  ten  days.  He 
had  done  every  thing  in  the  most  expensive  way, 
feeling  that  every  napoleon  wasted  had  been 
laid  out  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Crawley.  But,  as 
Mrs.  Toogood  had  just  told  him,  all  this  was  no- 
thing to  what  Toogood  was  doing.  Toogood 
with  twelve  children  was  livingat  his  own  charges 
at  Barchester,  and  was  neglecting  his  business 
besides.  "  There's  Mr.  Crump,"  said  Mrs.  Too- 
good.  "  Of  course  he  doesn't  like  it,  and  what 
can  I  say  to  him  when  he  comes  to  me?"  This 
was  not  quite  fair  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Toogood, 
as  Mr.  Criim]i  had  not  troubled  her  even  once 
as  yet  since  her  husband's  departure. 

What  was  Johnny  to  do  when  he  left  Tavis- 
tock Square?  His  club  was  open  to  him. 
Should  he  go  to  his  club,  play  a  game  of  billiards, 
and  have  some  sujiper?  When  he  asked  him- 
self the  question  he  knew  that  he  would  not  go 
to  his  club,  and  yet  he  pretended  to  doubt  about 
it  as  he  made  his  way  to  a  cab-stand  in  Totten- 
ham Court  Road.  It  would  be  slow,  he  told 
himself,  to  go  to  his  club.  He  would  have  gone 
to  see  Lily  Dale,  only  that  his  intimacy  with 
Mrs.  Tliorne  was  not  sufficient  to  justify  his  call- 
ing at  her  house  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  at 
niglit.  But,  as  he  must  go  somewhere — and  as 
his  intimacy  with  Lady  Demolines  was,  he 
thought,  sufficient  to  justifj'  almost  any  thing — 
he  would  go  to  Bayswater.     I  regret  to  say  that 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OB^  BARSET. 


329 


he  had  written  a  mysterious  note  from  Paris  to 
Madalina  Demolincs,  saying  tliat  he  should  be 
in  London  on  this  very  night,  and  that  it  was  just 
on  the  cards  tliat  lie  miglit  make  liis  way  up  to 
I'orchcster  Terrace  before  he  went  to  bed.  The 
note  was  mysterious,  because  it  had  neither  be- 
ginning nor  ending.  It  did  not  contain  even 
initials.  It  was  written  like  a  telegraph  mcs- 
.^age,  and  was  about  as  long.  It  was  the  kind 
of  thing  Miss  Demolines  liked,  Johnny  thought ; 
and  there  could  be  no  reason  wliy  he  should  not 
gratify  her.  It  was  her  favorite  game.  Some 
peojile  like  whist,  some  like  croquet,  and  some 
like  intrigue.  Madalina  would  probably  have 
called  it  romance,  because  by  nature  she  was 
romantic.  John,  who  was  made  of  sterner  stuff, 
laughed  at  this.  He  knew  that  there  was  no 
romance  in  it.  He  knew  that  he  was  only 
amusing  himself,  and  gratifying  her  at  the  same 
time,  by  a  little  innocent  pretense.  He  told 
himself  that  it  was  his  nature  to  prefer  the  so- 
ciety of  women  to  that  of  men.  He  would  have 
liked  the  society  of  Lily  Dale,  no  doubt,  much 
better  than  that  of  Miss  Demolines ;  but  as  the 
society  of  Lily  Dale  was  not  to  be  had  at  that 
moment,  tlie  society  of  Miss  Demolines  was  the 
best  substitute  within  his  reach.  So  he  got  into 
a  cab  and  had  himself  driven  to  Porchester  Ter- 
race. "  Is  Lady  Demolines  at  home  ?"  he  said 
to  the  servant.  He  always  asked  for  Lady 
Demolines.  But  the  page  who  was  accustomed 
to  open  the  door  for  him  was  less  false,  being 
young,  and  would  now  tell  him,  without  any 
further  fiction,  that  Miss  Madalina  was  in  the 
drawing-room.  Sucli  was  the  answer  he  got 
from  the  page  on  this  evening.  What  Mada- 
lina did  with  her  mother  on  these  occasions  he 
had  never  yet  discovered.  There  used  to  be 
some  little  excuses  given  about  Lady  Demolines's 
state  of  health,  but  latterly  Madalina  had  discon- 
tinued her  references  to  her  mother's  headaches. 
She  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  drawing- 
room  when  he  entered  it,  with  both  her  hands 
raised,  and  an  almost  terrible  expression  of  mys- 
tery in  her  face.  Her  hair,  however,  had  been 
very  carefully  arranged  so  as  to  fall  with  copious 
carelessness  down  her  shoulders,  and  altogether 
she  was  looking  her  best.  "  Oh,  John  !"  she 
said.  She  called  him  John  by  accident  in  the 
tumult  of  the  moment.  "Have  you  heard 
what  has  happened?  But  of  course  you  have 
heard  it." 

' '  Heard  what  ?  I  have  heard  nothing, "  said 
Johnny,  arrested  almost  in  the  doorway  by  the 
nature  of  the  question — and  partly  also,  no 
doubt,  by  the  tumult  of  the  moment.  He  had 
no  idea  how  terrible  a  tragedy  was  in  truth  in 
store  for  him  ;  but  he  perceived  that  the  mo- 
ment was  to  be  tumultuous,  and  that  he  must 
carry  himself  accordingly. 

"Come  in,  and  close  the  door,"  she  said. 
He  came  in  and  closed  the  door.  "Do  you/ 
mean  to  say  that  you  haven't  heard  what  has 
happened  in  Hook  Court?" 

"No;  what  lias  happened  in  Hook  Court?" 
Miss  Demolines  tlirew  herself  back  into  an  arm- 
X 


chair,  dosed  her  eyes,  and  clasped  both  her 
hands  upon  her  forehead.  "What  has  hiip- 
j)ened  in  Hook  Court?"  said  Johnny,  walking 
up  to  her. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  can  bring  myself  to  tell 
you,"  she  answered. 

Then  he  took  one  of  her  hands  down  from 
her  forehead  and  held  it  in  his — which  she  al- 
lowed passively.  She  was  thinking,  no  doubt, 
of  something  far  different  from  that. 

"I  never  saw  you  looking  better  in  my  life," 
said  Johnny. 

"Don't,"  said  she.  "How  can  you  talk  in 
that  way,  when  my  heart  is  bleeding — bleeding?" 
Then  she  pulled  away  her  hand,  and  again 
clasped  it  with  the  other  upon  her  forehead. 

"But  why  is  your  heart  bleeding?  What 
has  happened  in  Hook  Court?"  Still  she  an- 
swered nothing,  but  she  sobbed  violently,  and 
the  heaving  of  her  bosom  showed  how  tumultu- 
ous was  the  tumult  within  it.  "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  Dobbs  Broughton  has  come  to  grief 
— that  he's  to  be  sold  out  ?" 

"Man,"  said  Madalina,  jumping  from  her 
chair,  standing  at  her  full  height,  and  stretching 
out  both  her  arms,  "he  has  destroyed  himself!" 
The  revelation  was  at  last  made  with  so  much 
tragic  propriety,  in  so  excellent  a  tone,  and  with 
such  an  absence  of  all  the  customary  redun- 
dances of  commonplace  relation,  that  I  think 
that  she  must  have  rehearsed  the  scene — either 
with  her  mother  or  with  the  page.  Then  there 
was  a  minute's  silence,  during  which  she  did 
not  move  even  an  eyelid.  She  held  her  out- 
stretched hands  without  dropping  a  finger  half 
an  inch.  Her  face  was  thrust  forward,  her  chin 
])rojecting,  with  tragic  horror ;  but  there  was 
no  vacillation  even  in  her  cliin.  She  did  not 
wink  an  eye,  or  alter  to  the  breadth  of  a  hair 
the  aperture  of  her  lips.  Surely  she  was  a  great 
genius  if  she  did  it  all  without  previous  rehearsal. 
Then,  before  he  had  thought  of  words  in  which 
to  answer  her,  she  let  her  hands  fall  by  her  side, 
she  closed  her  eyes,  and  shook  her  head,  and 
fell  back  again  into  her  chair.  "  It  is  too  hor- 
rible to  be  spoken  of — to  be  thought  about,"  she 
said.  "  I  could  not  have  brought  myself  to  tell 
the  tale  to  a  living  being — except  to  you." 

This  would  naturally  have  been  flattering  to 
Johnny  had  it  not  been  that  he  was  in  truth  ab- 
sorbed by  the  story  which  he  had  heard. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that 
Broughton  has — committed  suicide  ?"  She 
could  not  speak  of  it  again,  but  nodded  her 
head  at  him  thrice,  while  her  eyes  were  still 
closed.  "And  how  was  the  manner  of  it?" 
said  he,  asking  the  question  in  a  low  voice.  He 
could  not  even  as  yet  quite  bring  himself  to  be- 
lieve it.  Madalina  was  so  fond  of  a  little  play- 
ful intrigue  that  even  this  story  might  have 
something  in  it  of  the  nature  of  fiction.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  of  the  facts,  and  yet  he  was 
shocked  by  what  he  had  heard. 

"Would  you  have  me  repeat  to  you  all  the 
bloody  details  of  that  terrible  scene?"  she  said. 
"It  is  impossible.     Go  to  your  friend  Dalryra- 


330 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


pie.  He  will  tell  yon.  He  knows  it  all.  He 
has  been  with  Alalia  all  thronj^h.  I  wish — I 
wish  it  had  not  been  so."  But  nevertheless  she 
did  bring  herself  to  narrate  all  the  details  witli 
something  more  of  circnmstancc  than  Eames 
desired.  She  soon  sncceedcd  in  making  him 
understand  that  the  tragedy  of  Hook  Court  was 
a  reality,  and  that  poor  Dobbs  Broughton  had 
brought  his  career  to  an  nntimely  end.  SIic 
had  heard  every  thing — having  indeed  gone  to 
Musselboro  in  the  City,  and  having  penetrated 
even  to  the  sanctum  of  Mr.  Bangles.  To  Mr. 
Bangles  she  had  explained  that  she  was  bosom- 
friend  of  the  widow  of  the  unfortunate  man,  and 
that  it  was  her  miserable  duty  to  make  herself 
the  mistress  of  all  the  circumstances.  Mv.  Ban- 
gles— the  reader  may  remember  him.  Burton 
and  Bangles,  who  kept  the  stores  for  Himalaya 
wines  at  22s.  6d.  the  dozen,  in  Hook  Court — 
was  a  bachelor,  and  rather  liked  the  visit,  and  told 
Miss  Demolines  very  freely  all  he  had  seen. 
And  when  she  suggested  that  it  might  be  expe- 
dient for  the  sake  of  the  family  that  she  should 
come  back  to  Mr.  Bangles  for  further  informa- 
tion at  a  subsequent  period,  he  very  politely  as- 
sured her  tliat  she  would  "  do  iiim  proud"  when- 
ever she  might  ])lease  to  call  in  Hook  Court. 
And  then  he  saw  her  into  Lombard  Street,  and 
put  her  into  an  omnibus.  She  was  therefore 
well  qualified  to  tell  Johnny  all  the  particulars 
of  the  tragedy,  and  she  did  so  far  overcome  her 
horror  as  to  tell  them  all.  She  told  her  tale 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  ^Eneas,  not  for- 
getting "the  quorum  pars  magna  fui."  "I 
feel  that  it  almost  makes  an  old  woman  of  me," 
said  she,  when  she  had  finished. 

"No,"  said  Johnny,  remonstrating — "not 
that." 

"But  it  does.  To  have  been  concerned  in 
so  terrible  a  tragedy  takes  more  of  life  out  of 
one  than  years  of  tranquil  e.\istence."  As  she 
had  told  him  nothing  of  her  intercourse  with 
Bangles — with  Bangles  who  had  literally  picked 
the  poor  wretch  up — he  did  not  see  how  she  her- 
self had  been  concerned  in  the  matter ;  but  he 
said  nothing  about  that,  knowing  the  character 
of  his  Madalina.  "I  shall  see — that — body, 
floating  before  my  eyes  wliile  I  live,"  she  said, 
"and  the  gory  wound,  and — and — "  "  Don't," 
said  Johnny,  recoiling  in  truth  from  the  picture, 
by  whicli  he  was  revolted.  "  Never  again,"  slie 
said;  "never  again!  But  you  forced  it  from 
me,  and  now  I  shall  not  close  my  eyes  for  a  week." 

She  then  became  verj-  comfortably  confiden- 
tial, and  discussed  the  affairs  of  poor  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfac- 
tion. "I  went  to  see  her,  of  course,  but  she 
sent  me  down  Avord  to  say  that  the  shock  would 
be  too  much  for  her.  I  do  not  wonder  that  she 
should  not  see  me.  Poor  j\Laria !  She  came 
to  me  for  advice,  you  know,  when  Dobbs 
Broughton  first  proposed  to  her ;  and  I  was 
obliged  to  tell  her  what  I  really  thought.  I 
knew  her  character  so  well!  'Dear  jMaria,'  I 
said,  '  if  you  tliink  tliat  you  can  love  him,  take 
him  I'      'I  think  I  can,'  she  replied.     'But,' 


said  I,  '  make  yourself  quite  sure  about  the 
business.'  And  how  has  it  turned  out?  She 
never  loved  him.  "What  heart  she  has  she  has-_ 
given  to  that  wretched  Dalrymple." 

"  I  don't  see  that  he  is  particularly  wretched," 
said  Johnny,  pleading  for  his  friend. 

"He  is  wretched,  and  so  you'll  find.  She 
gave  him  her  heart  after  giving  her  hand  to 
poor  Dobbs  ;  and  as  for  the  business,  there  isn't 
as  mucli  left  as  will  pay  for  her  mourning.  I 
don't  wonder  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
see  me." 

"And  what  has  become  of  the  business  ?" 

"It  belongs  to  Mrs.  Van  Siever — to  her  and 
Musselboro.  Poor  Broughton  had  some  little 
money,  and  it  has  gone  among  them.  Mussel- 
boro, who  never  had  a  penny,  will  be  a  rich  m.an. 
Of  course  you  know  that  he  is  going  to  marry 
Clara?" 

"Nonsense !" 

"I  always  told  you  that  it  would  be  so. 
And  now  yon  may  perhaps  acknowledge  that 
Conway  Dalrymple's  prospects  are  not  very 
brilliant.  I  hope  he  likes  being  cut  out  by  Mr. 
Musselboro!  Of  course  he  will  have  to  marry 
Maria.  I  do  not  see  how  he  can  escape.  Indeed, 
she  is  too  good  for  him — only  after  such  a  mar- 
riage as  that  there  would  be  an  end  to  all  his 
prospects  as  an  artist.  The  best  thing  for  them 
would  be  to  go  to  New  Zealand." 

John  Eames  certainly  liked  these  evenings 
with  Miss  Demolines.  He  sat  at  his  ease  in  a 
comfortable  chair,  and  amused  himself  by  watch- 
ing her  different  little  plots.  And  then  she  had 
bright  eyes,  and  she  flattered  him,  and  allowed 
him  to  scold  her  occasionally.  And  now  and 
again  there  might  be  some  more  potent  attrac- 
tion, when  she  would  admit  him  to  take  her 
hand — or  the  like.  It  was  better  than  to  sit 
smoking  with  men  at  the  club.  But  he  could 
not  sit  all  night  even  with  Madalina  Demolines, 
and  at  eleven  he  got  up  to  take  his  leave. 
"When  shall  you  see  Miss  Dale?"  she  asked 
him,  suddenly. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  frowning  at 
her.  He  always  frowned  at  her  when  she  spoke 
to  him  of  Miss  Dale. 

"I  do  not  in  the  least  care  for  your  frowns," 
she  said,  playfully,  putting  up  her  hands  to 
smooth  his  brows.  "I  think  I  know  you  inti- 
mately enough  to  name  your  goddess  to  you." 

"  She  isn't  my  goddess." 

"A  very  cold  goddess,  I  should  think,  from 
what  I  hear.  I  wish  to  ask  you  for  a  promise 
respecting  her." 

"What  promise?" 

"  Will  you  grant  it  me  ?" 

"How "can  I  tell  till  I  hear?" 

"You  must  promise  me  not  to  speak  of  me 
to  her  when  you  see  her." 

"But  why  must  I  promise  that?" 

"  Promise  me." 

"Not  unless  you  tell  me  why."  Johnny  had 
already  assured  himself  that  nothing  could  be 
more  improbable  than  that  he  should  mention 
the  name  of  Miss  Demolines  to  Lily  Dale. 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


331 


"Very  well,  Sir.  Then  you  may  go.  And 
I  must  s:iy  that  unless  you  can  comply  with  so 
slight  a  request  as  that  I  shall  not  care  to  see 
you  here  again.  Mr.  Eames,  why  should  you 
want  to  speak  evil  of  me  to  Miss  Dale?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  speak  evil  of  you." 

"I  know  that  you  could  not  speak  of  mc  to 
her  without  at  least  ridicule.  Come,  promise 
me.  You  shall  come  here  on  Thursday  even- 
ing, and  I  will  tell  you  why  I  have  asked  you." 

"Tell  me  now." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  shook  her 
head.  "No.  I  can  not  tell  you  now.  My 
heart  is  still  bleeding  with  the  memory  of  that 
poor  man's  fate.  I  will  not  tell  you  now.  And 
yet  it  is  now  that  you  must  give  me  the  promise. 
Will  you  not  trust  me  so  far  as  that  ?" 

"I  will  not  speak  of  you  to  Miss  Dale." 

"There  is  my  own  friend !  And  now,  John, 
mind  you  are  here  at  half  past  eight  on  Thurs- 
day. Punctually  at  half  past  eight.  There  is  a 
thing  I  have  to  tell  you,  which  I  will  tell  you 
then  if  you  will  come.  I  had  thought  to  hav^ 
told  you  to-day."  ' 

"And  why  not  now?" 

"I  can  not.  5Iy  feelings  are  too  many  for 
me.  I  should  never  go  through  with  it  after 
all  that  has  passed  between  us  about  poor 
Broughton.  I  should  break  down ;  indeed  I 
should.  Go  now,  for  I  am  tired."  Then,  hav- 
ing probably  taken  a  momentary  advantage  of 
that  more  potent  attraction  to  which  we  have 
before  alluded,  he  left  the  room  very  suddenly. 

He  left  the  room  very  suddenly,  because  Mad- 
alina's  movements  had  been  so  sudden,  and  her 
words  so  full  of  impulse.  He  had  become  aware 
that  in  this  little  game  which  he  was  playing  in 
Porchester  Terrace  every  thing  ought  to  be  done 
after  some  ixnaccustomed  and  special  fashion. 
So — having  clasped  Madalina  for  one  moment 
in  his  arms — he  made  a  rush  at  the  room  door, 
and  was  out  on  the  landing  in  a  second.  He 
was  a  little  too  quick  for  old  Lady  Demolines, 
the  skirt  of  whose  night-dress — as  it  seemed  to 
Johnny — he  saw  whisking  away,  in  at  another 
door.  It  was  nothing,  however,  to  him  if  old 
Lady  Demolines,  who  was  always  too  ill  to  be 
seen,  chose  to  roam  about  her  own  house  in  her 
night-dress. 

When  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  street 
his  mind  reverted  to  Dobbs  Broughton  and  the 
fate  of  the  wretched  man,  and  he  sauntered 
slowly  down  Palace  Gardens,  that  he  might  look 
at  tlie  house  in  which  he  had  dined  with  a  man 
who  had  destroyed  himself  by  his  own  hands. 
lie  stood  for  a  moment  looking  up  at  the  win- 
dows, in  which  there  was  now  no  light,  tliink- 
ing  of  the  poor  woman  whom  he  had  seen  in  the 
midst  of  luxury,  and  who  was  now  left  a  widow 
in  such  miserable  circumstances !  As  for  the 
suggestion  that  his  friend  Conway  would  marry 
her,  he  did  not  believe  it  for  a  moment.  He  knew 
too  well  what  the  suggestions  of  his  Madalina 
were  worth,  and  the  motives  from  which  they 
sprung.  But  he  thought  it  might  be  true  that 
Mrs.  Van  Siever  had  absorbed  all  there  was  of 


property,  and  possibly,  also,  that  Musselboro  was 
to  marry  her  daughter.  At  any  rate,  he  would 
go  to  Dalrymple's  rooms,  and  if  he  could  find 
him  would  learn  the  truth.  He  knew  enough 
of  Dalrymple's  ways  of  life,  and  of  the  ways  of 
his  friend's  chambers  and  studio,  to  care  no- 
thing for  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  in  a  very 
few  minutes  he  was  sitting  in  Dalrymple's  arm- 
chair. He  found  Siph  Dunn  there,  smoking  in 
unperturbed  tranquillity,  and  as  long  as  that 
lasted  he  could  ask  no  questions  about  Mrs. 
Broughton.  He  told  them,  therefore,  of  his  ad- 
ventures abroad,  and  of  Crawley's  escape.  But 
at  last,  having  finished  his  third  pipe,  Siph  Dunn 
took  his  leave. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  John,  as  soon  as  Dunn  had 
closed  the  door,  "what  is  this  I  hear  about 
Dobbs  Broughton?" 

"  He  has  blown  his  brains  out.    That  is  all." 

* '  How  terribly  shocking ! " 

"Yes;  it  shocked  us  all  at  first.  We  are 
used  to  it  now." 

"And  the  business?" 

"That  had  gone  to  the  dogs.  They  say  at 
least  that  his  share  of  it  had  done  so." 

"And  he  was  ruined?" 

"  They  say  so.  That  is,  Musselboro  says  so, 
and  Mrs.  Van  Siever." 

"And  what  do  you  say,  Conway?" 

"  The  less  I  say  the  better.  I  have  my  hopes 
— only  you're  such  a  talkative  fellow,  one  can't 
trust  you." 

"  I  never  told  any  secret  of  yours,  old  fel- 
low." 

"  Well ;  the  fact  is,  I  have  an  idea  that  some- 
thing may  be  saved  for  the  poor  woman.  I 
think  that  they  are  wronging  her.  Of  course 
all  I  can  do  is  to  put  the  matter  into  a  lawyer's 
hands,  and  pay  the  lawyer's  bill.  So  I  went  to 
your  cousin,  and  he  has  taken  the  case  up.  I 
hope  he  won't  ruin  me." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  are  quarreling  with 
Mrs.  Van?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  She  has  quarreled 
with  me." 

"And  what  about  Jael,  Conway?  They  tell 
me  that  Jael  is  going  to  become  Mrs.  Mussel- 
boro." 

"Who  has  told  you  that  ?" 

"A  bird." 

"Yes;  I  know  who  the  bird  is.  I  don't 
think  that  Jael  will  become  Mrs.  Musselboro. 
I  don't  think  that  Jael  would  become  Mrs.  Mus- 
selboro if  Jael  were  the  only  woman  and  Mus- 
selboro the  only  man  in  London.  To  tell  you 
a  little  bit  of  secret,  Johnny,  I  think  that  Jael 
will  become  the  wife  of  one  Conway  Dalrymple. 
Tliat  is  my  opinion  ;  and  as  far  as  I  can  judge, 
it  is  the  opinion  of  Jael  also." 

"But  not  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Van.  The  bird 
told  me  another  thing,  Conway."  » 

"What  was  the  other  thing?" 

"The  bird  hinted  that  all  this  would  end  in 
your  marrying  the  widow  of  that  poor  M'retch 
who  destroyed  himself." 

"Johnny,  my  boy,"  said  the  artist,  after  a 


332 


THE  LAST  CliKONlCLE  OF  J3ARSET. 


moment's  silence,  "  if  I  give  you  a  bit  of  advice, 
will  you  prolit  by  it?" 

"  I'll  try,  if  it's  not  disagreeable." 
"Whether  you  profit  by  it,  or  whether  you 
do  not,  keep  it  to  yourself.  I  know  the  bird 
better  than  you  do,  and  I  strongly  caution  you 
to  beware  of  the  bird.  The  bird  is  a  bird  of 
prey,  and  altogether  an  unclean  bird.  The  bird 
wants  a  mate,  and  doesn't  much  care  how  she 
finds  one.  And  the  bird  wants  money,  and 
doesn't  much  care  how  she  gets  it.  The  bird  is 
a  decidedly  bad  bird,  and  not  at  all  fit  to  take 
the  place  of  domestic  hen  in  a  decent  farm-yard. 
In  plain  English,  Johnny,  you'll  lind  some  day, 
if  you  go  over  too  often  to  I'orchester  Terrace, 
either  tliat  you  arc  going  to  marry  the  bird,  or 
else  that  you  are  employing  your  cousin  Too- 
good  for  your  defense  in  an  action  for  breach  of 
promise,  brought  against  you  by  that  venerable 
old  bird,  the  bird's  mamma." 

"If  it's  to  be  either  it  will  be  the  latter,"  said 
Johnny,  as  he  took  up  his  hat  to  go  away. 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

I    THINK    HE    IS    LIGHT    OF    IIEAKT. 

Mks.  Arabin  remained  one  day  in  town. 
Mr.  Toogood,  in  spite  of  his  asseveration  that 
he  would  not  budge  from  Barchester  till  he  had 
seen  Mr.  Crawley  through  all  his  troubles,  did 
run  up  to  London  as  soon  as  the  news  reached 
him  that  John  Eames  had  returned.  He  came 
up  and  took  Mrs.  Arabin's  deposition,  which  he 
sent  down  to  Mr.  Walker.  It  might  still  be 
necessary,  Mrs.  Arabin  was  told,  that  she  should 
go  into  court,  and  there  state  on  oath  that  she 
had  given  the  check  to  Mr.  Crawley ;  but  Mr. 
Walker  was  of  opinion  that  the  circumstances 
would  enable  the  judge  to  call  upon  the  grand 
jury  not  to  find  a  true  bill  against  Mr.  Crawley, 
and  that  the  whole  affair,  as  far  as  Mr.  Crawley 
was  concerned,  would  thus  be  brought  to  an 
end.  Toogood  was  still  very  anxious  to  place 
Dan  Stringer  in  the  dock,  but  Mr.  Walker  de- 
clared that  they  would  fail  if  they  made  the  at- 
tempt. Dan  had  been  examined  before  the 
magistrates  at  Barchester,  and  had  persisted  in 
his  statement  tliat  he  had  heard  nothing  aljout 
Mr.  Crawley  and  tlie  check.  This  he  said  in 
tiie  teeth  of  the  words  which  had  fallen  from 
.him  unawares  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Toogood. 
But  they  could  not  punish  him  for  a  lie — not 
even  for  such  a  lie  as  that !  He  was  not  upon 
oath,  and  tliey  could  not  make  him  responsible 
to  the  law  because  he  had  held  his  tongue  upon 
a  matter  as  to  which  it  was  manifest  to  them  all 
that  he  had  known  the  whole  history  during 
the  entire  period  of  Mr.  Crawley's  persecution. 
They  could  only  call  upon  him  to  account  for 
his  possession  of  the  check,  and  this  he  did  by 
saying  it  had  been  paid  to  him  by  Jem  Scuttle, 
who  received  all  moneys  appertaining  to  the  ho- 
tel stables,  and  accounted  for  them  once  a  week. 
Jem  Scuttle  had  simply  told  him  that  he  had 


taken  the  check  from  Mr.  Soames,  and  Jem  had 
since  gone  to  New  Zealand.  It  was  quite  true 
that  Jem's  departure  had  followed  suspiciously 
close  upon  the  jjayment  of  the  rent  to  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin, and  that  Jem  had  been  in  close  amity  with 
Dan  Stringer  up  to  the  moment  of  his  departure. 
That  Dan  Stringer  had  not  become  honestly 
possessed  of  the  check  every  body  knew  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  the  magistrates  were  of  opinion, 
Mr.  Walker  coinciding  with  them,  that  there 
was  no  evidence  against  him  sufficient  to  secure 
a  conviction.  The  story,  however,  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's injuries  was  so  well  known  in  Barchester, 
and  the  feeling  against  the  man  who  had  per- 
mitted him  to  be  thus  injured  was  so  strong,  that 
Dan  Stringer  did  not  altogether  escape  without 
])unishmcnt.  Some  rough  spirits  in  Barches- 
ter called  one  night  at  "The  Dragon  of  Want- 
ly,"and  begged  that  Mr.  Dan  Stringer  would  be 
kind  enough  to  come  out  and  take  a  walk  with 
them  that  evening ;  and  when  it  was  intimated 
to  them  that  Dan  Stringer  had  not  just  then 
any  desire  for  such  exercise,  they  requested  to 
be  allowed  to  go  into  the  back  parlor  and  make 
an  evening  with  Dan  Stringer  in  that  recess. 
There  was  a  terrible  row  at  the  "Dragon  of 
Wantly"that  night,  and  Dan  with  difficulty  was 
rescued  by  the  police.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing he  was  smuggled  out  of  Barchester  by  an 
[early  train,  and  has  never  more  been  seen  in 
that  city.  Humors  of  him,  however,  were  soon 
heard,  from  which  it  aj^peared  that  he  had  made 
himself  acquainted  with  the  casual  ward  of  more 
than  one  work-house  in  London.  His  cousin 
John  left  the  inn  almost  immediately — as,  in- 
deed, he  must  have  done  had  there  been  no 
question  of  Mr.  Soames's  check ;  and  then  there 
was  nothing  more  heard  of  the  Stringers  in  Bar- 
chester. 

Mrs.  Arabin  remained  in  town  one  day,  and 
would  have  remained  longer,  waiting  for  her 
husband,  had  not  a  letter  from  her  sister  im- 
pressed upon  her  that  it  might  be  as  well  that 
she  sliould  be  with  their  father  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. "  I  don't  mean  to  make  you  think  that 
there  is  any  immediate  danger,"  Mrs.  Grantly 
said,  "and,  indeed,  we  can  not  say  that  he  is 
ill;  but  it  seems  that  tlie  extremity  of  old  age 
has  come  upon  liim  almost  suddenly,  and  that 
he  is  as  weak  as  a  child.  His  only  delight  is 
with  the  children,  esj)ecially  with  Posy,  whose 
gravity  in  her  management  of  him  is  wonderful. 
He  has  not  left  his  room  now  for  more  than  a 
week,  and  he  eats  very  little.  It  may  be  that 
he  will  live  yet  for  years ;  but  I  should  be  de- 
ceiving you  if  I  did  not  let  you  know  that  both 
the  archdeacon  and  I  think  that  the  time  of  his 
departure  from  us  is  near  at  hand."  After  read- 
ing this  letter  Mrs.  Arabin  could  not  wait  in 
town  for  her  husband,  even  thougii  he  was  ex- 
pected in  two  days,  and  though  she  had  been 
told  that  her  presence  at  Barchester  was  not  im- 
mediately required  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Crawley. 

But  during  that  one  day  she  kei)t  her  prom- 
ise to  John  Eames  by  going  to  Lily  Dale.  Mrs. 
Arabin  had  become  ver3'  fond  of  Johnny,  and 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


333 


felt  that  he  deserved  the  prize  which  he  had 
been  so  long  trying  to  win.  The  reader,  per- 
haps, may  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Arabin.  The 
reader,  who  may  have  cauf^ht  a  closer  insigiit 
into  Johnny's  character  than  Mrs.  Arabin  had 
obtained,  maj',  perhaps,  think  that  ayonng  man 
who  could  amuse  himself  with  Miss  Demolines 
was  unworthy  of  Lily  Dale.  If  so,  I  may  de- 
clare for  myself  that  I  and  the  reader  are  not 
in  accord  about  John  Eames.  It  is  hard  to 
measure  worth  and  worthlessncss  in  such  mat- 
ters, as  there  is  no  standard  for  such  measure- 
ment. My  old  friend  John  was  certainly  no 
hero — was  very  unheroic  in  many  phases  of  his 
life ;  but  then  if  all  the  girls  arc  to  wait  for  he- 
roes, I  fear  that  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
matrimonial  arrangements,  great  as  thej'  are  at 
present,  will  be  very  seriously  enhanced.  John- 
ny was  not  ecstatic,  nor  heroic,  nor  transcend- 
ental, nor  very  beautiful  in  his  manliness ;  he 
was  not  a  man  to  break  his  heart  for  love,  or 
to  have  his  story  written  in  an  epic  ;  but  he  was 
an  affectionate,  kindly,  honest  young  man  ;  and 
I  think  most  girls  might  have  done  worse  than 
take  him.  Whether  he  was  wise  to  ask  assist- 
ance in  his  love-making  so  often  as  he  had  done, 
that  may  be  another  question. 

Mrs.  Arabin  was  intimately  acquainted  with 
Mrs.  Thome,  and  therefore  there  was  nothing 
odd  ill  her  going  to  Mrs.  Thome's  house.  Mrs. 
Thorne  was  very  glad  to  see  her,  and  told  her 
all  the  Barsetshire  news— much  more  than  Mrs. 
Arabin  would  have  learned  in  a  week  at  the 
deanery;  for  Mrs.  Thome  had  a  marvelous  gift 
of  picking  up  news.  She  had  already  heard 
the  whole  story  of  ]Mr.  Soames's  check,  and  ex- 
pressed her  conviction  that  the  least  tliat  could 
be  done  in  amends  to  Mr.  Crawley  was  to  make 
him  a  bishop.  "And  you  see  the  palace  is  va- 
cant," said  Mrs  Thorne. 

"  The  palace  vacant !"  said  Mi-s.  Arabin. 

"  It  is  just  as  good.  Now-  that  Mrs.  Proudie 
has  gone  I  don't  suppose  the  poor  bishop  will 
count  for  much.  I  can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin, I  felt  that  poor  woman's  death  so  much! 
She  used  to  regard  me  as  one  of  the  stanchest 
of  the  Proudieites !  She  once  whispered  to  me 
such  a  delightfully  wicked  story  about  the  dean 
and  the  archdeacon.  When  I  told  her  that 
they  were  my  particular  friends  she  put  on  a 
look  of  horror.  But  I  don't  think  she  believed 
me  "  Then  Emily  Dunstable  entered  the  room, 
and  with  her  came  Lily  Dale.  Mrs.  Arabin 
had  never  before  seen  Lily,  and  of  course  they 
were  introduced.  "I  am  sorry  to  say  Miss 
Dale  is  going  home  to  Allington  to-morrow," 
said  Emily.  "  But  she  is  coming  to  Chaldicotes 
in  May,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne.  "  Of  course,  Mrs. 
Arabin,  you  know  what  gala  doings  we  are  go- 
ing to  have  in  May?"  Then  there  were  vari- 
ous civil  little  speeches  made  on  each  side,  and 
Mrs.  Arabin  expressed  a  wish  that  she  might 
meet  Miss  Dale  again  in  Barsetshire.  But  all 
this  did  not  bring  her  at  all  nearer  to  her  ob- 
ject. 

"I  particularly  wish  to  say  a  word  to  Miss 


Dale — here  to-day,  if  she  will  allow  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Arabin. 

"I'm  sure  .'^ho  will — twenty  words;  won't 
you,  Lily?"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  prejjaring  to 
leave  the  room.  Then  Mrs.  Arabin  ajjologized, 
and  Mrs.  Thorne,  bustling  up,  said  that  it  did 
not  signify,  and  Lily,  remaining  quite  still  on 
the  sofa,  wondered  what  it  was  all  about — and 
in  two  minutes  Lily  and  Mrs.  Arabin  were  alone 
together.  Lily  had  just  time  to  surmise  that 
Mrs.  Arabin's  visit  must  have  some  reference 
to  Mr.  Crosbie — remembering  that  Crosbie  had 
married  his  wife  out  of  Barsetshire,  and  forget- 
ting altogether  that  Mrs.  Arabin  had  been  just 
brought  home  from  Italy  by  John  Eames. 

"I  am  afraid.  Miss  Dale,  you  will  think  me 
very  impertinent,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  think  that,"  said  Lily. 

"  I  believe  you  knew,  before  Mr.  Eames  start- 
ed, that  he  was  going  to  Italy  to  find  me  and 
my  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin.  Then  Lily 
put  Mr.  Crosbie  altogether  out  of  her  head,  and 
became  aware  that  he  was  not  to  be  the  subject 
of  the  coming  conversation.  She  was  almost 
Sony  that  it  was  so.  There  was  no  doubt  in 
her  mind  as  to  what  she  would  have  said  to  any 
one  who  might  have  taken  up  Crosbie's  cause. 
On  that  matter  she  could  now  have  given  a  very 
decisive  answer  in  a  few  words.  But  on  that 
other  matter  she  was  much  more  in  doubt.  She 
remembered,  however,  every  word  of  the  note 
she  had  received  from  M.  D.  She  remembered 
also  the  words  of  John's  note  to  that  young  wo- 
man. And  her  heart  was  still  hard  against  him. 
"Yes,"  she  said;  "Mr.  Eames  came  here  one 
night  and  told  us  why  he  was  going.  I  was 
very  glad  that  ho  was  going,  because  I  thought 
it  was  right." 

"You  know,  of  course,  how  successful  he 
has  been  ?  It  was  I  who  gave  the  check  to  Mr. 
Crawley." 

"So  Mrs.  Thorne  has  heard.  Dr.  Thorne 
has  written  to  tell  her  the  whole  story." 

"  And  now  I've  come  to  look  for  Mr.  Eames's 
reward." 

"  His  reward,  Mrs.  Arabin  ?" 

"Yes ;  or  rather  to  j)lead  for  him.  You  will 
not,  I  hope,  be  angry  with  him  because  he  has 
told  me  much  of  his  history  while  we  were  trav- 
eling home  alone  together." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Lily,  smiling.  "How  could 
he  have  chosen  a  better  friend  in  whom  to 
trust  ?" 

"He  could  certainly  have  chosen  none  who 
would  take  his  part  more  sincerely.  He  is  so 
good  and  so  amiable  !  He  is  so  pleasant  in  his 
ways,  and  so  fitted  to  make  a  woman  happy ! 
And  then.  Miss  Dale,  he  is  also  so  devoted  !" 

"  He  is  an  old  friend  of  ours,  Mrs.  Arabin." 

"  So  he  has  told  me." 

"And  we  all  of  us  love  him  dearly.  Mam- 
ma is  very  much  attached  to  him." 

"  Unless  he  flatters  himself,  there  is  no  one 
belonging  to  you  who  would  not  wish  that  he 
should  be  nearer  and  dearer  still." 

"It  mav  be  eo.     I  do  not  sav  that  it  is  not 


334 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


so.     Mamma  and  my  uncle  are  both  fond  of 
him." 

"And 'does  not  that  go  a  long  way?"  said 
Mrs.  Arabin. 

"It  ought  not  to  do  so,"  said  Lily.  "It 
ought  not  to  go  any  way  at  all." 

"  Ought  it  not?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  could 
never  liavo  brouglit  myself  to  marry  any  one 
whom  my  old  friends  had  not  liked." 

"Ah  !  that  is  another  thing." 

"But  is  it  not  a  recommendation  to  a  man 
that  ho  has  been  so  successful  witli  your  friends 
as  to  make  them  all  feel  that  you  might  trust 
yourself  to  him  with  perfect  safety  ?"  To  this 
Lily  made  no  answer,  and  IMrs.  Arabin  went  on 
to  plead  iier  friend's  cause  witli  all  the  eloquence 
she  could  use,  insisting  on  all  his  virtues,  his 
good  temper,  his  kindness,  his  constancy — and 
not  forgetting  the  fact  tliat  the  world  was  in- 
clined to  use  him  very  well.  Still  Lily  made 
no  answer.  She  had  promised  Mrs.  Arabin  that 
she  would  not  regard  her  interference  as  imper- 
tinent, and  tlicrefore  she  refrained  from  any 
word  that  might  seem  to  show  offense.  Nor 
did  she  feel  olfense.  It  was  something  gained 
by  John  Eames  in  Lily's  estimation  that  he 
should  have  such  a  friend  as  j\Irs.  Arabin  to 
take  an  interest  in  his  welfare.  But  there  was 
a  self-dependence,  perhaps  one  may  call  it  an 
obstinacy  about  Lily  Dale,  which  made  her  de- 
termined tiiat  she  would  not  be  driven  hither 
or  tliither  by  any  pressure  from  without.  Why 
had  John  Eames,  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
sliould  have  been  doing  his  best  to  drive  from 
her  breast  the  memory  of  past  follies — when  lie 
would  have  striven  to  do  so  had  he  really  been 
earnest  in  his  suit — why  at  such  a  moment  had 
he  allowed  himself  to  correspond  in  terms  of 
attection  with  such  a  woman  as  this  M.  D.  ? 
While  Mrs.  Arabin  was  pleading  for  John 
Eames,  Lily  Avas  repeating  to  herself  certain 
words  which  John  had  written  to  the  woman : 
"Ever  and  always  yours  unalterably."  Such 
were  not  the  exact  words,  but  such  was  the 
form  in  which  Lily,  dislionestly,  chose  to  re- 
peat them  to  herself.  And  why  was  it  so  with 
her?  In  the  old  days  she  would  have  forgiven 
Crosbie  any  offense  at  a  word  or  a  look — any 
possible  letter  to  any  M.  D.,  let  her  have  been 
ever  so  abominable!  Nay,  had  she  not  even 
forgiven  him  the  ofiense  of  deserting  herself  al- 
together on  behalf  of  a  woman  as  detestable  as 
could  bo  any  M.  D.  of  Johnny's  choosing — a 
woman  whose  only  recommendation  had  been 
her  title  ?  And  yet  she  would  not  forgive  John 
Eames,  though  the  evidence  against  him  was  of 
so  flimsy  a  nature,  but  rather  strove  to  turn  the 
flimsiness  of  that  evidence  into  strength  !  Why 
was  it  so?  Unheroic  as  he  might  be,  John 
Eames  was  s^irely  a  better  man  and  a  bigger 
man  than  Adolphus  Crosbie.  It  was  simply 
this :  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  one,  and 
had  never  fallen  in  lovo  with  the  other !  She 
had  fallen  in  lovo  with  the  one  man,  though  in 
her  simple  way  she  had  made  a  struggle  against 
such  feeling ;  and  she  had  not  come  to  lovo  the 


other  man,  though  she  had  told  herself  that  it 
would  be  well  that  she  should  do  so  if  it  were 
possible.  Again  and  again  she  had  half  de- 
clared to  herself  that  she  would  take  him  as 
her  husband  and  leave  the  love  to  come  after- 
ward ;  but  when  the  moment  came  for  doing 
so  she  could  not  do  it. 

"May  I  not  say  a  word  of  comfort  to  him?" 
said  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"  lie  will  be  very  comfortable  without  any 
such  word,"  said  Lily,  laughing. 

"  But  he  is  not  comfortable  ;  of  that  you  may 
be  very  sure."  "Yours  ever  and  unalterably, 
J.  E.,"  said  Lily  to  herself.  "You  do  not 
doubt  his  affection  ?"  continued  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"  I  neither  doubt  it  nor  credit  it." 

"Then  I  think  you  wrong  him.  And  the 
reason  why  I  have  ventured  to  come  to  you  is 
that  you  may  know  the  impression  which  he 
has  made  uj)on  one  who  was  but  the  other  day 
a  stranger  to  him.  I  am  sure  that  he  loves 
you." 

"I  think  he  is  light  of  heart." 

"Oh  no.  Miss  Dale." 

"And  how  am  I  to  become  his  wife  unless 
I  love  him  well  enough  myself?  Mrs.  Arabin, 
,1  have  made  up  my  mind  about  it.  I  shall 
never  become  any  man's  wife.  Mamma  and  I 
are  all  in  all  together,  and  we  shall  remain  to- 
gether." As  soon  as  these  words  were  out  of 
her  mouth  she  hated  herself  for  having  spoken 
them.  There  was  a  maudlin,  missish,  namby- 
mamby  sentimentality  about  them  which  dis- 
gusted her.  She  si)ecially  desired  to  be  straight- 
forward, resolute  of  purpose,  honest-spoken,  and 
free  fi"t)m  all  toucJi  of  affectation.  And  yet  she 
had  excused  herself  from  marrying  John  Eames 
after  the  fashion  of  a  sick  school-girl.  "It  is 
no  good  talking  about  it  any  more,"  she  said, 
getting  up  from  her  chair  quickly. 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me — or  at  any  rate 
you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"I'm  quite  sure  you  have  meant  to  be  veiy 
good,  and  I  am  not  a  bit  angry." 

"And  you  will  see  him  before  you  go?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  that  is  if  he  likes  to  come  to-day, 
or  early  to-morrow.  I  go  home  to-morrow.  I 
can  not  refuse  him,  because  he  is  such  an  old 
friend — -almost  like  a  brother.  But  it  is  of  no 
use,  Mrs.  Arabin."  Then  Mrs.  Arabin  kissed 
her  and  left  her,  telling  her  that  Mr.  Eames 
would  come  to  her  that  afternoon  at  half  past 
five.  Lily  promised  that  she  would  be  at  home 
to  receive  him. 

"Won't  you  ride  with  us  for  the  last  time?" 
said  Emily  Dunstable,  when  Lily  gave  notice 
that  she  would  not  want  the  horse  on  that  after- 
noon. 

"No;  not  to-day." 

"You'll  never  have  another  o]ii)ortunity  of 
riding  with  Emily  Dunstable,"  said  the  bride    :^ 
elect — "at  least  I  hope  not." 

"  Even  under  those  circumstances  I  must  rc- 
fuse,  though  I  would  give  a  guinea  to  be  with 
vou.  John  Eames  is  coming  here  to  say  good- 
by." 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


33; 


"Oh!  then  indeed  you  must  not  come  with 
Tis.     Lily,  what  will  you  say  to  him?" 

"Notliing." 

"Oh,  Lily!  think  of  it." 

"I  have  thought  of  it.  I  have  thought  of 
nothing  else.  I  am  tired  of  thinking  of  it. 
It  is  not  good  to  think  of  any  thing  so  much. 
"What  does  it  matter?" 

"  It  is  very  good  to  have  some  one  to  love 
one  better  than  all  the  world  besides." 

"I  have  some  one,"  said  Lily,  thinking  of 
her  mother,  but  not  caring  to  descend  again  to 
the  mawkish  weakness  of  talidng  about  her. 

"  Yes ;  but  some  one  to  be  always  with  you, 
to  do  every  thing  for  you,  to  be  your  very  own." 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you,"  said  Lily,  "and 
I  think  that  Bernard  is  the  luckiest  fellow  in 
the  world ;  but  it  ^\^ll  not  do  for  me.  I  know 
in  what  college  I'll  take  my  degree,  and  I  wish 
they'd  let  me  write  the  letters  after  my  name  as 
the  men  do." 

" What  letters,  Lily?" 

"O.M.,  for  Old  Maid.  I  don't  see  why  it 
shouldn't  be  as  good  as  B.A.  for  Bachelor  of 
Arts.     It  would  mean  a  great  deal  more." 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

THE     SHATTERED     TREE. 

When  Mrs.  Arabin  saw  Johnny  in  the  mid- 
dle of  that  day  she  could  hardly  give  him  much 
encouragement.  And  yet  she  felt  by  no  means, 
sure  that  lie  might  not  succeed  even  yet.  Lily 
had  been  very  positive  in  her  answers,  and  yet 
there,  had  been  something,  either  in  her  words 
or  in  the  tone  of  lier  voice,  which  had  made 
Mrs.  Arabin  feel  that  even  Lily  was  not  quite 
sui'e  of  herself.  There  was  still  room  for  relent- 
ing. Nothing,  however,  had  been  said  which 
could  justify  her  in  bidding  John  Eames  simply 
"to  go  in  and  win."  "I  think  he  is  light  of 
heart,"  Lily  had  said.  Those  were  the  words 
which,  of  all  that  had  been  spoken,  most  im- 
pressed themselves  on  Mrs.  Arabin's  memory. 
She  would  not  repeat  them  to  her  friend,  but 
she  would  graft  upon  them  such  advice  as  she 
had  to  give  him. 

And  this  she  did,  telling  him  that  she  thought 
that  perhaps  Lily  doubted  his  actual  earnestness. 
"I  would  marry  her  this  moment,"  said  John- 
ny. But  that  was  not  enough,  as  Mrs.  Arabin 
knew,  to  prove  his  earnestness.  Many  men, 
fickle  as  weather-cocks,  are  ready  to  marry  at 
the  moment — are  ready  to  marry  at  the  mo- 
ment, because  they  are  fickle,  and  think  so  lit- 
tle about  it.  "But  she  hears,  perhaps,  of  your 
liking  other  people,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin.  "I 
don't  care  a  straw  for  any  other  person,"  said 
Johnny.  "I  wonder  whether  if  I  was  to  shut 
myself  up  in  a  cage  for  six  months  it  would  do 
any  good?"  "If  she  had  the  keeping  of  the 
cage,  perhaps  it  might,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin.  She 
had  nothing  more  to  say  to  him  on  that  subject 
but  to  tell  him  that  Miss  Dale  would  expect  him 


that  afternoon  at  half  past  five.  "I  told  her 
that  you  would  come  to  wish  her  good-by,  and 
she  promised  to  see  you." 

"  I  wisli  she'd  say  she  wouldn't  see  me.  Then 
there  would  be  some  chance,"  said  Johnny. 

Between  him  and  Mrs.  Arabin  the  parting 
was  very  afi'ectionate.  She  told  him  how  thank- 
ful she  was  for  his  kindness  in  coming  to  hei-, 
and  how  grateful  she  would  ever  be — and  the 
dean  also — for  his  attention  to  her.  "Remem- 
ber, Mr.  Eames,  that  you  will  always  be  most 
welcome  at  tlie  deanery  of  Barcliestcr.  And  I 
do  hope  that  before  long  you  may  he  there  with 
your  wife."     And  so  they  parted. 

He  left  her  at  about  two,  and  went  to  Mr. 
Toogood's  office  in  Bedford  Row.  He  found  his 
uncle,  and  the  two  went  out  to  lunch  together 
in  Ilolborn.  Between  them  there. was  no  word 
said  about  Lily  Dale,  and  Jolin  was  glad  to  have 
some  other  subject  in  his  mind  fur  half  an  hour. 
Toogood  was  full  of  liis  triumph  about  Mr. 
Crawley  and  of  his  successes  in  Barsctshire.  He 
gave  John  a  long  account  of  his  visit  to  Plum- 
stead,  and  expressed  his  opinion  that  if  all  cler- 
gymen were  like  the  archdeacon  there  would 
not  be  so  much  room  for  Dissenters.  "  I've  seen 
a  good  many  parsons  in  my  time,"  said  Too- 
good  ;  "  but  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  a  one 
as  him.  You  know  he  is  a  clergyman  somehow, 
and  he  never  lets  you  forget  it ;  but  that's  about 
all.  Most  of  'em  are  never  contented  without 
choking  you  with  their  white  cravats  all  the 
time  you're  with  'em.  As  for  Crawley  himself," 
Mr.  Toogood  continued,  "he's  not  like  any  body 
else  that  ever  was  born,  saint  or  sinner,  parson 
or  layman.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  man  in  all 
my  ex])erience.  Though  he  knew  where  he  got 
the  check  as  well  as  I  know  it  now,  ho  wouldn't 
say  so,  because  the  dean  had  said  it  wasn't  so. 
Somebody  ought  to  write  a  book  about  it — in- 
deed they  ought."  Then  he  told  the  whole  story 
of  Dan  Stringer,  and  how  he  had  found  Dan  out, 
looking  at  the  top  of  Dan's  hat  through  tiie  little 
aperture  in  the  wall  of  the  inn  parlor.  "  When 
I  saw  the  twitch  in  his  hat,  John,  I  knew  he  had 
handled  the  check  himself.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  I'm  sharper  than  another  man,  and  I  don't 
think  so  ;  but  I  do  mean  to  say  that  when  you 
are  in  any  difficulty  of  that  sort  you  ought  to  go 
to  a  lawyer.  It's  his  business,  and  a  man  does 
what  is  his  business  with  patience  and  persever- 
ance. It's  a  pity,  though,  that  that  scoundrel 
should  get  oif."  Then  Eames  gave  his  uncle  an 
account  of  his  Italian  trip,  to  and  fro,  and  was 
congratulated  also  upon  his  success.  John's 
great  triumph  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
only  two  nights  in 'bed,  and  that  he  would  not 
have  so  far  condescended  on  those  occasions 
but  for  the  feminine  weakness  of  his  fellow-trav- 
eler. "  We  sha'n't  forget  it  all  in  a  hurry ^-shall 
we,  John  ?"  said  Mr.  Toogood,  in  a  pleasant 
voice,  as  they  parted  at  the  door  of  the  lunchecn 
house  in  Holborn.  Toogood  was  returning  to 
his  office,  and  John  Eames  was  to  prepare  him- 
self for  his  last  attemjit. 

He  went  home  to  his  lodgings,  intending  at 


336 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


first  to  change  his  dress — to  make  himself  smart 
for  the  work  before  him — but  after  standing  for 
a  moment  or  two  loaning  on  the  chest  of  drawers 
in  Ills  bedroom  he  gave  up  this  idea.  "After 
all  tliat's  come  and  gone,"  he  said  to  himself,' 
"if  I  can  not  win  her  as  I  am  now,  I  can  not 
win  her  at  all."  And  then  he  swore  to  himself 
a  solemn  oath,  resolving  that  he  would  repeat 
the  puq)ort  of  it  to  Lily  herself — that  this  should 
be  tlic  last  attempt.  "What's  the  use  of  it? 
Every  body  ridicules  me.  And  lam  ridiculous. 
I  am  an  ass.  It's  all  very  well  wanting  to  be 
prime  minister;  but  if  you  can't  be  i)rime  min- 
ister you  must  do  without  being  jirime  minister." 
Tiicn  he  attempted  to  sing  the  old  song — "  Siiall 
I,  sighing  in  des])air,  die  because  a  woman's 
fair?  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me,  what  care  I  how 
fair  she  be?"  But  he  did  care,  and  he  told 
himself  that  the  song  did  him  no  good.  As  it 
was  not  time  for  him  as  yet  to  go  to  Lily,  he 
threw  himself  on  tlie  sofa,  and  strove  to  read  a 
book.  Tlien  all  the  weary  nights  of  his  journey 
prevailed  over  him,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  it  wanted  a  quarter  to  six. 
lie  sprang  up,  and  rushing  out,  jumped  into  a 
cab.  "  Berkeley  Square — as  hard  as  you  can 
go,"  he  said.  "  Number  — ."  He  tliought  of 
Rosalind,  and  her  counsels  to  lovers  as  to  the 
keeping  of  time,  and  reflected  tliat  in  such  an 
emergency  as  his  he  might  really  have  ruined 
himself  by  that  unfortunate  slumber.  When  he 
got  to  Mrs.  Thome's  door  he  knocked  hurriedly, 
and  bustled  up  to  the  drawing-room  as  thougli 
every  thing  depended  on  his  saving  a  minute. 
"  I'm  afraid  I'm  ever  so  much  behind  my  time," 
he  said. 

"It  does  not  matter  in  tlie  least,"  said  Lily. 
"As  MrS'.  Arabin  said  that  perhaps  you  might 
call,  I  would  not  be  out  of  the  way.  I  supposed 
that  Sir  RatHe  was  keeping  you  and  that  you 
wouldn't  come." 

"  Sir  Rattie  was  not  keeping  me.  I  fell 
asleep.     That  is  the  truth  of  it." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  tliat  you  should  have  been 
disturbed !" 

"  Do  not  laugh  at  me,  Lily — to-day.  I  had 
been  traveling  a  good  deal,  and  I  suppose  I  was 
tired." 

"I  won't  laugh  at  you,"  she  said,  and  of  a 
sudden  her  eyes  became  full  of  tears — she  did  not 
know  why.  But  there  tliey  were,  and  she  was 
ashamed  to  put  up  her  handkerchief,  and  slie 
could  not  bring  herself  to  turn  away  her  face,  and 
she  had  no  resource  but  tliat  he  should  see  them. 

"Lily !"  he  said. 

"What  a  paladin  you  have  been,  John,  rush- 
ing all  about  Europe  on  your  friend's  behalf!" 

"Don't  talk  about  that." 

"And  such  a  successful  paladin  too!  Why 
am  I  not  to  talk  about  it?  I  am  going  home 
to-morrow,  and  I  mean  to  talk  about  nothing 
else  for  a  week.  I  am  so  very,  very,  very  glad 
that  you  have  saved  your  cousin."  Then  she 
did  put  up  her  handkerchief,  making  believe 
that  her  tears  had  been  due  to  Mr.  Crawley. 
But  John  Eames  knev/  better  than  that. 


"  Lily,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  for  tlie  last  time. 
It  sounds  as  though  I  meant  to  threaten  you ; 
but  you  won't  take  it  in  that  way.  I  think  you 
will  know  what  1  mean.  I  have  come  for  the 
last  time — to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife."  She  had 
got  up  to  greet  him  when  he  entered,  and  they 
were  both  still  standing.  She  did  not  answer 
him  at  once,  but  turning  away  from  him  walked 
toward  the  window.  "You  knew  why  I  was 
coming  to-day,  Lily?" 

"  Mrs.  Arabin  told  me.  I  could  not  be  away 
when  you  were  coming,  but  perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better." 

"Is  it  so?  Must  it  be  so?  Must  you  say 
that  to  me,  Lily?  Tiiink  of  it  for  a  moment, 
dear." 

"I  have  thought  of  it." 

"One  word  from  you,  yes  or  no,  spoken  now 
is  to  be  every  thing  to  me  for  always.  Lily, 
can  not  you  say  yes  ?"  She  did  not  answer  him, 
but  w^alked  further  away  from  him  to  another 
window.  "Try  to  say  yes.  Look  round  at 
me  with  one  look  that  may  only  half  mean  it — 
that  may  tell  me  that  it  shall  not  posiiivejy  be 
no  forever."  I  think  that  she  almost  tried  to 
turn  her  face  to  him  ;  but  be  that  as  it  may, 
she  kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  ujion  tlie  win- 
dow-pane. "Lily,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  that 
you  are  hard-hearted ;  perhaps  not  altogetlier 
tliat  you  do  not  like  me.  I  think  that  you  be- 
lieve things  against  me  that  are  not  true."  As 
she  heard  this  she  moved  her  foot  angrily  u])on 
the  carpet.  She  had  almost  forgotten  M.  D.,  but 
now  he  had  reminded  her  of  the  note.  She  as- 
sured herself  that  she  had  never  believed  any 
thing  against  him  except  on  evidence  that  was 
incontrovertible.  But  she  was  not  going  to  speak 
to  him  on  such  a  matter  as  that !  It  would  not 
become  her  to  accuse  him.  "  Mrs.  Arabin  tells 
me  tliat  you  doubt  whether  I  am  in  earnest," 
he  said. 

Upon  hearing  this  she  flashed  round  upon 
him  almost  angrily.      "  I  never  said  that." 

"  If  you  will  ask  me  for  any  token  of  earnest- 
ness I  will  give  it  you." 

"I  want  no  token." 

"The  best  sign  of  earnestness  a  man  can  give 
generally  in  such  a  matter  is  to  show  how  ready 
he  is  to  be  married." 

"I  never  said  any  thing  about  earnestness." 

"At  the  risk  of  making  you  angry  I  will  go 
on,  Lily.  Of  course  when  you  tell  me  that  you 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  I  try  to  amuse 
myself." — "Yes;  by  writing  love-letters  to  M. 
D.,"  said  Lily  to  herself. — "  What  is  a  poor  fel- 
low to  do  ?  I  tell  you  fairly  that  when  I  leave 
you  I  swear  to  myself  that  I  will  make  love  to 
the  first  girl  I  can  see  who  w  ill  listen  to  me — to 
twenty,  if  twenty  will  let  me.  I  feel  I  have 
failed,  and  it  is  so  I  punish  myself  for  my  fail- 
ure." There  was  something  in  this  which  soft- 
ened her  brow,  though  she  did  not  intend  that 
it  should  be  so;  and  she  turned  away  again, 
that  he  might  not  see  that  her  brow  was  soft- 
ened. "But,  Lily,  the  hope  ever  comes  back 
again,  and  then  neither  the  one  nor  the  twenty 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


337 


are  of  avail — even  to  punish  me.  When  I  look 
forward  and  see  what  it  nii^ht  be  if  you  were 
with  me,  how  green  it  all  looks  and  how  lovely, 
in  spite  of  all  the  vows  I  have  made  I  can  not 
help  coming  back  again."  She  was  now  again 
near  the  window,  and  he  had  not  followed  her. 
As  she  neither  turned  toward  him  nor  answered 
him,  he  moved  from  the  table  near  which  he 
was  standing  on  to  the  rug  before  the  fire,  and 
leaned  with  both  his  elbows  on  the  mantle-i)icce. 
He  could  still  watch  her  in  tlie  mirror  over  tlie 
fire-place,  and  could  see  that  she  was  still  seem- 
ing to  gaze  out  upon  the  street.  And  had  he 
not  moved  her  ?  I  think  he  had  so  far  moved 
her  now  that  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  the 
woman  who  had  written  to  lier — tbat  slic  had 
ceased  to  reject  him  in  her  lieart  on  the  score 
of  such  levities  as  that.  If  tbere  were  M.  D.s, 
like  sunken  rocks,  in  his  course,  whose  fault 
was  it  ?  He  was  ready  cnougli  to  steer  liis  bark 
into  the  tranquil  blue  waters,  if  only  slie  would 
aid  him.  I  think  that  all  his  sins  on  that  score 
were  at  this  moment  forgiven  him.  He  had 
told  her  now  what  to  him  would  be  green  and 
beautiful,  and  she  did  not  find  herself  able  to 
disbelieve  him.  She  had  banished  M.  D.  out 
of  her  mind,  but  in  doing  so  she  admitted  other 
reminiscences  into  it.  And  then — was  she  in  a 
moment  to  be  talked  out  of  the  resolution  of 
years?  and  was  she  to  give  up  herself,  not  be- 
cause she  loved,  but  because  tlie  man  who  talked 
to  her  talked  so  well  that  he  deserved  a  reward  ? 
Was  she  now  to  be  as  light,  as  foolish,  as  easy, 
as  in  those  former  days  from  which  she  had 
learned  her  wisdom  ?  A  picture  of  green  lovely 
things  could  be  delicious  to  her  eyes  as  to  his ; 
but  even  for  such  a  picture  as  that  the  price 
might  be  too  dear !  Of  all  living  men — of  all 
men  living  in  their  present  lives — she  loved  best 
this  man  who  was  now  waiting  for  some  word 
of  answer  to  his  words;  and  she  did  love  him 
dearly ;  she  would  have  tended  him  if  sick,  have 
supplied  him  if  in  want,  have  mourned  for  him 
if  dead  with  the  bitter  grief  of  true  affection ; 
but  she  could  not  say  to  herself  that  he  should 
be  her  lord  and  master,  the  head  of  her  house, 
the  owner  of  herself,  the  ruler  of  Iier  life.  The 
shipwreck  to  which  she  had  once  come,  and  the 
fierce  regrets  which  had  tlience  arisen,  had  forced 
her  to  think  too  much  of  these  things.  "Lily," 
he  said,  still  facing  toward  the  mirror,  "will 
you  not  come  to  me  and  speak  to  me?"  She 
turned  round,  and  stood  a  moment  looking  at 
him,  and  then,  having  again  resolved  that  it 
could  not  be  as  he  wislied,  she  drew  near  to 
him.  "Certainly  I  will  speak  to  you,  John. 
Here  I  am."     And  she  came  close  to  him. 

He  took  both  her  hands  and  looked  into  her 
eyes.      "Lily,  will  you  be  mine?" 

"No,  dear  ;   it  can  not  be  so." 

"Why  not,  Lily?"  | 

"Because  of  tliat  other  man." 

"  And  is  that  to  be  a  bar  forever?" 

"Yes  ;  forever." 

"Do  you  still  love  him?" 

"No ;  no,  no!" 


"Tlicn  wliy  should  this  be  so?" 

"  I  can  not  tell,  dear.  It  is  so.  If  you  take 
a  young  tree  and  split  it,  it  still  lives,  i)crhaps. 
But  it  isn't  a  tree.     It  is  only  a  fragment." 

"Then  be  my  fragment." 

"  So  I  will,  if  it  can  serve  you  to  give  stand- 
ing ground  to  such  a  fragment  in  some  corner 
of  your  garden.  But  I  will  not  have  myself 
planted  out  in  the  middle,  for  people  to  look  at. 
What  there  is  left  would  die  soon."  lie  still 
held  her  hands,  and  she  did  not  attempt  to  draw 
them  away.  "  John,"  she  said,  "next  to  mam- 
ma, I  love  you  better  than  all  the  world.  In- 
deed I  do.  I  can't  be  your  wife,  but. you  need 
never  be  afraid  that  I  shall  be  more  to  another 
than  I  am  to  you." 

"That  will  not  serve  me,"  he  said,  grasping 
both  her  hands  till  he  almost  hurt  them,  but  not 
knowing  that  he  did  so.      "That  is  no  good." 

"It  is  all  the  good  that  I  can  do  you.  In- 
deed I  can  do  you — can  do  no  one,  any  good. 
The  trees  that  tlie  storms  have  splintered  are 
never  of  use." 

"And  is  this  to  be  the  end  of  all,  Lily?" 

"Not  of  our  loving  friendshijx" 

"Friendship!  I  hate  the  word.  I  hear 
some  one's  step,  and  I  had  better  leave  you. 
Good -by." 

"  Good-by,  John.  Be  kinder  than  that  to 
me  as  you  are  going."  He  turned  back  for 
a  moment,  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  tight 
against  his  heart,  and  then  he  left  her.  In  the 
hall  he  met  Mrs.  Thorne,  but,  as  she  said  after- 
ward, he  had  been  too  much  knocked  about  to 
be  able  to  throw  a  word  to  a  dog. 

To  Mrs.  Thorne  Lily  said  hardly  a  word 
about  John  Fames,  and  when  her  cousin  Ber- 
nard questioned  her  about  him  she  was  dumb. 
And  in  these  days  she  could  assume  a  manner, 
and  express  herself  with  her  eyes  as  well  as  with 
her  voice,  after  a  fasliion  which  Mas  apt  to  si- 
lence unwelcome  questioners,  even  though  they 
were  as  intimate  with  her  as  was  her  cousin 
Bernard.  She  had  described  her  feelings  more 
plainly  to  her  lover  than  she  had  ever  done  to 
any  one — even  to  her  mother ;  and  having  done 
so  she  meant  to  be  silent  on  that  subject  for 
evermore.  But  of  her  settled  purpose  she  did 
say  some  word  to  Emily  Dunstable  that  night. 
"I  do  feel,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  got  the 
thing  settled  at  last." 

"And  you  have  settled  it,  as  you  call  it,  in 
opposition  to  the  wishes  of  all  your  friends." 

"Tliat  is  true  ;  and  yet  I  have  settled  it  right- 
ly, and  I  would  not  for  worlds  have  it  unsettled 
again.  There  are  matters  on  whicli  friends 
should  not  have  wishes,  or  at  any  rate  should 
not  express  them." 

"  Is  that  meant  to  be  severe  to  me?" 

"No;  not  to  you.  I  was  thinking  about 
mamma,  and  Bell,  and  my  uncle,  and  Bernard, 
who  all  seem  to  think  that  I  am  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  regular  castaway  because  I  am  not 
likely  to  have  a  husband  of  my  own.  Of  course 
you,  in  your  position,  must  think  a  girl  a  cast- 
away who  isn't  going  to  be  married  ?" 


338 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"I  think  that  a  girl  who  is  going  to  he  mar- 
ried has  the  hest  of  it." 

"And  I  think  a  girl  who  isn't  going  to  he 
married  has  the  hest  of  it — that's  all.  But  I 
feel  that  the  thing  is  done  now,  and  I  am  con- 
tented. For  the  last  six  or  eight  months  there 
has  come  up,  I  know  not  how,  a  state  of  douht 
wiiidi  has  made  me  so  wretched  that  I  have 
done  literally  nothing.  I  haven't  hecn  able  to 
finish  old  Mrs.  Heard's  tippet,  literally  because 
people  would  talk  to  me  about  tiiat  dearest  of 
all  dear  fellows,  Jolin  Eames.  And  yet  all 
along  I  have  known  how  it  would  be — as  well 
as  I  do  now." 

"  I  can  not  nnderstand  you,  Lily  ;  I  can't  in- 
deed." 

"I  can  understand  myself.  I  love  him  so 
well — with  that  intimate,  close,  familiar  aflfec- 
tiiin— tiiat  I  could  wasli  his  clothes  for  him  to- 
morrow, out  of  pure  personal  regard,  and  tliink 
it  no  sliame.  He  could  not  ask  me  to  do  a  sin- 
gle thing  for  him — except  the  one  thing — that 
I  would  refuse.  And  I'll  go  further.  I  would 
sooner  marry  him  than  any  man  in  the  world 
I  ever  saw,  or,  as  I  believe,  that  I  ever  shall 
see.  And  yet  I  am  very  glad  that  it  is  set- 
tled." 

On  the  next  day  Lily  Dale  went  down  to  the 
Small  House  of  Allington,  and  so  she  passes 
out  of  our  siglit.  I  can  only  ask  the  reader  to 
believe  tliat  she  was  in  earnest,  and  express  my 
own  opinion,  in  this  last  word  that  I  shall  ever 
write  respecting  her,  that  she  will  live  and  die 
as  Lilv  Dale. 


CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 

THE    ARAI5INS    RETURN    TO    BARCHESTER. 

In  these  days  Mr.  Harding  was  keeping  his 
bed  at  the  deanery,  and  most  of  those  who  saw 
him  declared  that  he  would  never  again  leave 
it.  Tiie  archdeacon  had  been  slow  to  believe  so, 
because  he  had  still  found  his  father-in-law  able 
to  talk  to  him — not  indeed  with  energy,  but 
then  Mr.  Harding  had  never  been  energetic  on 
ordinary  matters — but  with  tiie  same  soft  cordial 
interest  in  things  wliich  had  ever  been  custom- 
ary with  him.  He  had  latterly  been  much  in- 
terested about  Mr.  Crawley,  and  would  make 
both  the  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grantly  tell  him 
all  that  they  heard,  and  what  they  thought  of 
tlie  case.  This  of  course  had  been  before  the 
all-important  news  had  been  received  from  Mrs. 
Arabin.  Mr.  Harding  was  very  anxious,  "First- 
ly," as  he  said,  "for  the  welfare  of  the  poor 
man,  of  whom  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  tliink 
ill ;  and  then  for  the  honor  of  the  cloth  in  Bar- 
chester."  "We  are  as  liable  to  have  black 
sheep  here  as  elsewhere,"  the  archdeacon  replied. 
"But,  my  dear,  I  do  not  think  that  the  sheep  is 
black ;  and  we  never  have  had  black  sheep  in 
Barchester."  "  Haven't  we  though?"  said  the 
archdeacon,  tliiiiking,  however,  of  sheep  who 
were  black  with  a  different  kind  of  blackness 
from  this  which  was  now  attributed  to  poor  Mr. 


Crawley — of  a  blackness  which  was  not  absolute 
blackness  to  Mr.  Harding's  milder  eyes.  The 
archdeacon,  when  he  heard  his  father-in-law 
talk  after  this  fashion,  expressed  his  opinion  that 
he  might  live  yet  for  years.  He  was  just  the 
man  to  linger  on,  living  in  bed — as  indeed  he 
had  lingered  all  his  life  out  of  bed.  But  the 
doctor  who  attended  him  thought  otherwise,  as 
did  also  Mrs.  Grantly,  and  as  did  Mrs.  Baxter, 
and  as  also  did  Posy.  "Grandpa  won't  get  up 
any  more,  will  he  ?"  Posy  said  to  Mrs.  Baxter. 
"  I  hoi)e  he  will,  my  dear ;  and  that  very  soon." 
"1  don't  think  he  will," said  Posy,  "because  he 
said  he  would  never  see  the  big  fiddle  again." 
"  Tiiat  comes  of  his  being  a  little  melancholy 
like,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 

Mrs.  Grantly  at  this  time  went  into  Barches- 
ter almost  every  day,  and  the  arciideacon,  wlio 
was  very  often  in  the  city,  never  went  there  with- 
out passing  half  an  hour  with  the  old  man. 
These  two  clergymen,  essentially  diflercnt  in 
their  characters  and  in  every  detail  of  conduct, 
had  been  so  much  thrown  together  by  circum- 
stances that  the  life  of  each  had  almost  become 
a  part  of  the  life  of  the  other.  Altiiough  the 
fact  of  Mr.  Harding's  residence  at  tlie  deanery 
had  of  late  years  thrown  him  oftener  into  the 
society  of  the  dean  than  that  of  his  other  son- 
in-law,  yet  his  intimacy  with  the  arciideacon  | 
had  been  so  much  earlier,  and  his  memories  of 
the  archdeacon  were  so  much  clearer,  that  he 
depended  almost  more  upon  the  rector  of  Plum- 
stead,  who  was  absent,  than  he  did  upon  the 
dean,  whom  he  customarily  saw  every  day.  It 
was  not  so  with  his  daughters.  His  Nelly,  as  he 
had  used  to  call  her,  had  ever  been  his  favorite, 
and  tlie  circumstances  of  their  joint  lives  bad 
been  such  that  they  had  never  been  further  sep. 
arated  than  from  one  street  of  Barchester  to  an- 
other— and  that  only  for  the  very  short  period 
of  the  married  life  of  flirs.  Arabin's  first  husband. 
For  all  that  was  soft  and  tender  therefore — 
wliich  with  Mr.  Harding  was  all  in  the  Avorld 
that  was  charming  to  him — he  looked  to  his 
youngest  daughter ;  but  for  authority  and  guid- 
ance and  wisdom,  and  for  information  as  to  what 
was  going  on  in  the  world,  he  had  still  turned 
to  his  son-in-law  the  archdeacon — as  he  had 
done  for  nearly  forty  years.  For  so  long  had 
the  archdeacon  been  potent  as  a  clergyman  in 
the  diocese,  and  throughout  the  whole  duration 
of  such  potency  his  word  had  been  law  to  Mr. 
Harding  in  most  of  tlie  affairs  of  life — a  law 
generally  to  be  obeyed,  and  if  sometimes  to  be 
broken,  still  a  law.  And  now,  when  all  was  so 
nearly  over,  he  would  become  unhappy  if  the 
archdeacon's  visits  were  far  between.  Dr. 
Grantly,  when  he  found  that  tliis  was  so,  would 
not  allow  that  they  should  be  far  between. 

"  He  puts  me  so  much  in  mind  of  my  father," 
the  archdeacon  said  to  his  wife  one  day. 

"He  is  not  so  old  as  your  father  was  when  he 
died,  by  many  years,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "and 
I  think  one  sees  that  difference." 

"  Yes  ;  and  therefore  I  say  that  he  may  still 
live  for  years.     My  father,  when  he  took  to  his 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


339 


bed  at  last,  was  manifestly  near  his  death.  The 
wonder  with  him  was  that  he  continued  to  live 
so  long.  Do  you  not  remember  how  the  London 
doctor  was  put  out  because  his  prophecies  were 
not  fulfilled?" 

"  I  remember  it  well — as  if  it  were  yester- 
day." 

"And  in  that  way  there  is  a  great  difference. 
]My  fatiier,  who  was  physically  a  much  stronger 
man,  did  not  succumb  so  easily.  But  the  like- 
ness is  in  their  characters.  There  is  the  same 
mild  sweetness,  becoming  milder  and  sweeter 
as  they  increased  in  age — a  sweetness  that  nev- 
er could  believe  much  evil,  but  that  could  be- 
lieve less,  and  still  less,  as  the  weakness  of  age 
came  on  them.  No  amount  of  evidence  would 
induce  your  father  to  think  that  Mr.  Crawley 
stole  that  money."  Tliis  was  said,  of  course, 
before  the  telegram  had  come  from  Venice. 

"As  far  as  that  goes  I  agree  with  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly,  who  had  her  own  reasons  for 
choosing  to  believe  Mr.  Crawley  to  be  innocent. 
"If  your  son,  my  dear,  is  to  marry  a  man's 
daugliter,  it  will  be  as  well  tliat  you  should  at 
least  be  able  to  say  that  you  do  not  believe  that 
man  to  be  a  thief." 

"That  is  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  the 
arciuleacon.      "  A  jury  must  decide  it." 

"  No  jury  in  Barsetshire  shall  decide  it  for 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"I'm  sick  of  Mr.  Crawley,  and  I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  of  him,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  But  look 
at  Mrs.  I'roudie.  You'll  agree  that  she  was  not 
the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world." 

"  She  certainly  was  not,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly, 
who  was  anxious  to  encourage  her  husband,  if 
slie  could  do  so  without  admitting  any  thing 
which  might  injure  herself  afterward. 

"And  slie  was  at  one  time  violently  insolent 
to  your  father.  And  even  the  bishop  thought 
to  trample  upon  him.  Do  you  remember  the 
bishop's  preaching  against  your  father's  chant- 
ing ?  If  I  ever  forget  it !"  And  the  archdea- 
con slapped  his  closed  fist  against  his  open  hand. 

"Don't,  dear;  don't.  Wiiat  is  the  good  of 
being  violent  now?" 

"Paltry  little  fool!  It  will  be  long  enough 
before  such  a  chant  as  that  is  heard  in  any  En- 
glish cathedral  again."  Then  Mrs.  Grantly  got 
up  and  kissed  her  husband,  but  he,  somewhat 
negligent  of  the  kiss,  went  on  with  his  speech. 
"But  your  father  remembers  nothing  of  it,  and 
if  there  was  a  single  human  being  who  shed  a 
tear  in  Barchester  for  tliat  woman,  I  believe  it 
was  your  father.  And  it  was  tiie  same  with 
mine.  It  came  to  that  at  last  that  I  could  not 
bear  to  speak  to  him  of  any  shortcoming  as  to 
one  of  his  own  clergymen.  I  might  as  well  have 
pricked  him  with  a  jicnknife.  And  yet  they  say 
men  become  heartless  and  unfeeling  as  they 
grow  old!" 

"  Some  do,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes  ;  the  heartless  and  unfeeling  do.  As 
the  bodily  strength  fails  and  the  power  of  con- 
trol becomes  lessened  the  natural  a])titude  of  the 
man  pronounces  itself  more  clearly.     I  take  it 


that  that  is  it.  Had  Mrs.  Proudie  lived  to  be  a 
hundred  and  fifty,  she  would  have  sjjoken  spite- 
ful lies  on  her  death-bed."  Then  Mrs.  Grantly 
told  herself  tliat  her  husband,  should  he  live  to 
be  a  hundred  and  fifty,  would  still  be  cxjjressing 
his  horror  of  Mrs.  Proudie — even  on  iiis  death- 
bed. 

As  soon  as  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Arabin  had 
reached  I'lumstead  the  archdeacon  and  iiis  wife 
arranged  that  they  would  botii  go  together  to  the  • 
deanery.  There  were  the  double  tidings  to  be 
told — tiiose  of  Mr.  Crawley's  assured  innocence, 
and  those  also  of  Mrs.  Arabin's  instant  return. 
And  as  they  went  together  various  ideas  were 
passing  through  their  minds  in  reference  to  the 
marriage  of  their  son  with  Grace  Crawley.  They 
were  both  now  reconciled  to  it.  -Mrs.  Grantly 
had  long  ceased  to  feel  any  ojtposition  to  it,  even 
though  she  had  not  seen  Grace ;  and  the  arch- 
deacon was  prepared  to  give  way.  Had  he  not 
promised  tiiat  in  a  certain  case  he  would  give 
way,  and  had  not  that  case  now  come  to  pass  ? 
He  had  no  wish  to  go  back  from  his  word.  But 
lie  had  a  difficulty  in  this — that  he  liked  to  make 
all  the  aft'airs  of  liis  life  matter  for  enjoyment,  al- 
most for  triumpli ;  but  how  was  he  to  be  triumph- 
ant over  this  marriage,  or  how  even  was  he  to 
enjoy  it,  seeing  that  he  had  opposed  it  so  bitter- 
ly ?  Tiiosc  posters,  though  they  were  now  pulled 
down,  had  been  up  on  all  barn  ends  and  walls, 
patent — alas,  too  patent — to  all  the  world  of  Bar- 
setshire !  "  What  will  JMr.  Crawley  do  now^,  do 
you  suppose?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"What  will  he  do?" 

"Yes;  must  he  go  on  at  Hogglestock?" 

"What  else?"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"It  is  a  pity  somethmg  could  not  be  done  for 
him  after  all  he  has  undergone.  How  on  earth 
can  he  be  expected  to  live  there  with  a  wife  and 
family,  and  no  private  means?"  To  this  the 
archdeacon  made  no  answer.  Mrs.  Grantly  had 
spoken  almost  immediately  upon  their  quitting 
Plumstead,  and  the  silence  was  continued  till 
the  carriage  had  entered  the  suburbs  of  the  city. 
Then  Mrs.  Grantly  spoke  again,  asking  a  ques- 
tion, with  some  internal  trepidation,  wliich,  how- 
ever, she  managed  to  hide  from  her  husband. 
"When  poor  papa  does  go,  what  shall  you  do 
about  St.  Ewold's  ?"  Now  St.  Ewold's  was  a  ru- 
i"al  parish  lying  about  two  miles  out  of  Barches- 
ter, the  living  of  which  was  in  the  gift  of  the 
archdeacon,  and  to  which  the  archdeacon  had 
presented  his  father-in-law,  under  certain  cir- 
cumstances which  need  not  be  repeated  in  this 
last  chronicle  of  Barsetshii:e.  Have  they  not 
been  written  in  other  chronicles  ?  "When  poor 
papa  does  go,  what  will  you  do  about  St. 
Ewold's?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  trembling  inward- 
ly. A  word  too  much  might,  as  she  well  knew, 
settle  the  question  against  Mr.  Crawley  forever. 
But  were  she  to  postpone  the  word  till  too  late, 
the  question  would  be  settled  as  fatally. 

*'I  haven't  thought  about  it,"  he  said,  sharp- 
ly. "  I  don't  like  thinking  of  such  things  while 
the  incumbent  is  still  living."  Oh,  archdeacon, 
archdeacon  I   unless  that  other  chronicle  be  a 


340 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


false  chronicle,  how  hast  thou  forgotten  thyself 
and  thy  past  life !  "  Particularly  not  when 
that  incumbent  is  your  father,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. Mrs.  Grantly  said  nothing  more  about 
St.  Ewold's.  She  would  have  said  as  much  as 
she  had  intended  to  s.ay  if  she  had  succeeded 
in  niakinj^  the  archdeacon  understand  that  St. 
Ewuld's  would  be  a  very  nice  refuge  for  Mr. 
Crawley  after  all  the  miseries  which  he  had  en- 
dured at  Hopglcstock. 

They  learned  as  they  entered  the  deanery  that 
^Irs.  Haxtcr  had  already  heard  of  Mrs.  Arabin's 
return.  "  Oh  yes,  ma'am.  Mr.  Harding  got  a 
letter  Iiisself,  and  I  got  another — separate  ;  botli 
from  Venice,  ma'am.  But  when  master  is  to 
come  nobody  seems  to  know."  Mrs.  Baxter 
knew  that  the  dean  had  gone  to  Jerusalem,  and 
was  inclined  to  think  that  from  such  distant 
bournes  there  was  no  return  for  any  traveler. 
The  East  is  always  further  than  the  West  in  the 
estimation  of  the  Mrs.  Baxters  of  the  world. 
Had  the  dean  gone  to  Canada  she  would  have 
thought  that  he  might  come  back  to-morrow. 
But  still  there  was  the  news  to  be  told  of  Mr. 
Crawley,  and  there  was  also  joy  to  be  expressed 
at  the  sudden  coming  back  of  the  much-wished- 
for  mistress  of  the  deanery. 

"It's  so  good  of  you  to  come  both  together," 
said  Mr.  Harding. 

"  We  thought  we  should  be  too  many  for  you," 
said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Too  many  !  Oh  dear,  no.  I  like  to  have 
people  by  me;  and  as  for  voices,  and  noise,  and 
all  that,  the  more  the  better.  But  I  am  weak. 
I'm  weak  in  my  legs.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
stand  again." 

"Yes,  you  will," said  the  archdeacon. 

"  We  have  brouglit  you  good  news, "  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"  Is  it  not  good  news  that  Nelly  will  be  home 
this  week  ?  You  can't  understand  what  a  joy  it 
is  to  me.  I  used  to  think  sometimes,  at  night, 
that  I  should  never  see  her  again.  That  she 
would  come  back  in  time  was  all  I  have  had  to 
wish  for."  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  pressed  his  withered  hands  together 
above  the  bedclothes.  They  could  not  begin 
immediately  to  tell  him  of  Mr.  Crawley,  but  as 
soon  as  his  mind  had  turned  itself  away  from  the 
thoughts  of  his  absent  daughter  Mrs.  Grantly 
again  reverted  to  her  news. 

"  We  have  come  to  tell  you  about  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, papa." 
'"What  about  him?" 

"He  is  quite  innocent." 

"  I  knew  it,  my  dear.  I  always  said  so. 
Did  I  not  always  say  so,  archdeacon  ?" 

"Indeed  you  did.     I'll  give  you  that  credit." 

"And  is  it  all  found  out?" asked  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. 

"As  far  as  he  is  concerned,  every  thing  is 
found  out,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "Eleanor  gave 
him  the  cheek  herself." 

"Nelly  gave  it  to  him  ?" 

"Yes,  papa.  The  dean  meant  her  to  give 
him  fifty  pounds.     But  it  seems  she  got  to  be 


soft  of  heart  and  made  it  seventy.  She  had  the 
check  by  her,  and  put  it  into  the  envelope  with 
the  notes." 

"  Some  of  Stringer's  people  seem  to  have 
,  stolen  the  check  from  Mr.  Soames,"  said  the 
archdeacon. 

"Oh  dear ;  I  hope  not." 

"  Somebody  must  have  stolen  it,  papa." 

"  I  had  ho])ed  not,  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 
Both  the  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grantly  knew 
that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  him  on  such  a 
point,  and  so  they  let  that  go. 

Then  they  came  to  discuss  Mr.  Crawley's  pres- 
ent ])osition,  and  Mr.  Harding  ventured  to  ask 
a  question  or  two  as  to  Grace's  chance  of  mar- 
riage. He  did  not  often  interfere  in  the  family 
arrangements  of  his  son-in-law,  and  never  did 
so  when  those  family  arrangements  were  con- 
cerned with  high  matters.  He  had  hardly  open- 
ed his  mouth  in  reference  to  the  marriage  of 
that  august  lady  who  was  now  the  Marchioness 
of  Ilartletop.  And  of  the  Lady  Anne,  the  wife 
of  the  Ilcv.  Charles  Grantl}',  who  was  always 
prodigiously  civil  to  him,  speaking  to  him  very 
loud,  as  though  he  were  deaf  because  he  was  old, 
and  bringing  him  cheap  presents  from  London 
of  which  he  did  not  take  much  heed — of  her  he 
rarely  said  a  word,  or  of  her  children,  to  either 
of  his  daughters.  But  now  his  grandson,  Hen- 
ry Grantly,  was  going  to  marry  a  girl  of  whom 
he  felt  that  he  might  sjieak  without  impropri- 
ety. "  I  suppose  it  will  be  a  match  ;  won't  it, 
my  dears?" 

"Not  a  doubt  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 
Mr.  Harding  looked  at  his  son-in-law,  but  his 
son-in-law  said  nothing.  The  archdeacon  did 
not  even  frown,  but  only  moved  himself  a  little 
uneasily  in  bis  chair. 

"Dear,  dear!  What  a  comfort  that  must 
be !"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  have  not  seen  her  yet," said  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly ;  "  but  the  archdeacon  declares  that  she  is  all 
the  graces  rolled  into  one." 

"I  never  said  any  thing  half  so  absurd,"  re- 
plied the  archdeacon. 

"But  he  really  is  quite  in  love  with  her,  pa])a," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "He  confessed  to  me  that 
he  gave  her  a  kiss,  and  he  only  saw  her  once 
for  five  minutes." 

"I  should  like  to  give  her  a  kiss,"  said  Mr. 
Harding. 

"  So  you  shall,  papa,  and  I'll  bring  her  here 
on  purpose.  As  soon  as  ever  the  thing  is  set- 
tled Ave  mean  to  ask  her  to  Plumstead." 

' '  Do  you,  though  ?  How  nice  !  How  happy 
Henry  will  be !" 

"And  if  she  comes — and  of  course  she  will 
— I'll  lose  no  time  in  bringing  her  over  to  you. 
Nelly  must  see  her,  of  course." 

As  they  were  leaving  the  room  Mr.  Harding 
called  the  arelideacon  back,  and  taking  him  by 
the  hand  spoke  one  word  to  him  in  a  whisper. 
^'  I  don't  like  to  interfere,"  he  said  ;  "  but  might 
not  Mr.  Crawley  have  St.  Ewold's  ?"  The  arch- 
deacon took  up  the  old  man's  hand  and  kissed 
it.     Then  he  followed  his  wife  out  of  the  room 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


841 


Avjtlioiit  making  any  answer  to  Mr.  Harding's 
question. 

Three  days  after  this  Mrs.  Arabin  reached  the 
deanery,  and  tlie  joy  at  her  return  was  very 
great.  "My  dear,  I  liavc  been  sick  for  you,') 
said  Mr.  Harding. 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  ought  not  to  have  gone." 

"  Nay,  my  dear  ;  do  not  say  tliat.  Wouhl  it 
make  me  happy  that  you  should  be  a  prisoner 
here  foi'ever  ?  It  was  only  when  1  seemed  to 
get  so  weak  that  I  thought  about  it.  I  felt  that 
it  must  be  near  wlien  they  bade  mc  not  to  go  to 
the  cathedral  any  more." 

"If  I  had  been  here  I  could  have  gone  with 
you,  papa." 

"It  is  better  as  it  is.  I  know  now  that  I  was 
not  fit  for  it.  When  your  sister  came  to  me 
I  never  thought  of  remonstrating.  I  knew  then 
that  I  had  seen  it  for  the  last  time." 

"  We  need  not  say  that  yet,  papa." 

"I  did  think  that  when  you  came  home  we 
might  crawl  tliere  together  some  warm  morning. 
I  did  tliink  of  that  for  a  time.  But  it  will 
never  be  so,  dear.  I  shall  never  see  any  thing 
now  that  I  do  not  see  from  here — and  not  that 
for  long.  Do  not  cry,  Nelly.  I  have  nothing 
to  regret,  nothing  to  make  mc  unliapi>y.  I  know 
how  poor  and  weak  has  been  my  life ;  but  I 
know  how  rich  and  strong  is  that  other  life. 
Do  not  cry,  Nelly — not  till  I  am  gone  ;  and  then 
not  beyond  measure.  Why  should  any  one 
weep  for  those  who  go  away  full  of  years — and 
full  of  hope  ?" 

On  the  day  but  one  following  the  dean  also 
reached  his  home.  The  final  arrangements  of 
his  tour,  as  well  as  those  of  his  wife,  had  been 
made  to  depend  on  Mr.  Crawley's  trial ;  for  he 
also  had  been  hurried  back  by  John  Eames's 
visit  to  Florence.  "I  should  have  come  at 
once,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "when  they  wrote  to 
ask  me  whether  Crawley  had  taken  the  check 
from  me,  had  any  body  then  told  me  that  he  was 
in  actual  trouble  ;  but  I  had  no  idea  then  that 
they  were  charging  him  with  theft." 

"As  far  as  I  can  Icarn,  they  never  really  sus- 
pected him  until  after  your  answer  had  come. 
They  had  been  quite  sure  that  your  answer 
would  be  in  the  affirmative." 

"What  he  must  have  endured  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive.     I  shall  go  out  to  him  to-morrow." 

"Would  he  not  come  to  us?"  said  Mrs. 
Arabin. 

"I  doubt  it.  I  will  ask  him,  of  course.  I 
will  ask  them  all  here.  This  about  Henry  and 
the  girl  may  make  a  dift'erence.  He  has  resign- 
ed the  living,  and  some  of  the  palace  people  are 
doing  the  duty." 

"  But  he  can  have  it  again  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  he  can  have  it  again.  For  the 
matter  of  that,  I  need  simply  give  him  back  his 
letter.  Only  he  is  so  odd — so  unlike  otlier  peo- 
ple !  And  he  has  tried  to  live  there,  and  lias 
failed ;  and  is  now  in  debt.  I  wonder  whether 
Grantly  would  give  him  St.  Ewold's?" 

"I  wisli  he  would.  But  you  must  ask  him. 
I  should  not  dare." 


As  to  the  matter  of  the  check,  the  dean  ac- 
knowledged to  his  wife  at  last  that  he  had  some 
recollection  of  her  having  told  him  that  she  had 
made  the  sum  of  money  up  to  seventy  pounds. 
"  I  don't  feel  certain  of  it  now  ;  but  I  think  you 
may  have  done  so."  "I  am  (luite  sure  I  could  / 
not  have  done  it  without  telling  you,"  she  rc- 
jilied.  "At  any  rate  you  said  nothing  of  the 
check,"  pleaded  the  dean.  "  I  don't  suppose  I 
did,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin.  ' '  I  thought  that  checks 
were  like  any  other  money ;  but  I  shall  know 
better  for  the  future." 

On  the  following  morning  the  dean  rode  over 
to  Ilogglestock,  and  as  he  drew  near  to  the 
house  of  his  old  friend  his  spirits  flagged ;  for, 
to  tell  the  truth,  he  dreaded  the  meeting.  Since 
the  day  on  which  he  had  brought  Mr.  Crawley 
from  a  curacy  in  Cornwall  into  the  diocese  of 
Barchester  his  friend  had  been  a  trouble  to  him 
rather  than  a  joy.  The  trouble  had  been  a 
trouble  of  spirit  altogether — not  at  all  of  pocket. 
He  would  willingly  have  picked  the  Crawleys 
out  from  the  pecuniary  mud  into  which  they 
were  ever  fiilling,  time  after  time,  liad  it  been 
possible.  For,  though  the  dean  was  hardly  to 
be  called  a  ricli  man,  his  lines  had  fallen  to  him 
not  only  in  ]jleasant  places,  but  in  easy  circum- 
stances ;  and  Mr.  Crawley's  embarrassments, 
though  overwhelming  to  him,  were  not  so  great 
as  to  have  been  heavy  to  the  dean.  But  in 
striving  to  do  this  he  had  always  failed,  had  al- 
ways suffered,  and  had  generally  been  rebuked. 
Crawley  would  attempt  to  argue  with  him  as  to 
the  improper  allotment  of  Church  endowments 
— declaring  that  he  did  not  do  so  with  any  ref- 
erence to  his  own  circumstances,  but  simply  be- 
cause the  subject  was  one  naturally  interesting 
to  clergymen.  And  this  he  would  do  as  ho 
was  waving  off  with  his  hand  offers  of  immedi- 
ate assistance  which  were  indispensable.  Then 
there  had  been  scenes  between  the  dean  and 
Mrs.  Crawley — terribly  painful — and  which  had 
taken  place  in  direct  disobedience  to  the  hus- 
band's positive  injunctions.  "  Sir,"  he  had 
once  said  to  the  dean,  "I  request  that  nothing 
may  pass  from  your  hands  to  the  hands  of  my 
wife."  "Tush,  tush  I"  the  dean  had  answei-ed. 
"I  will  have  no  tushiug  or  pshawing  on  such  a 
matter.  A  man's  wife  is  his  very  own,  the 
breath  of  his  nostril,  the  blood  of  his  heart,  the 
rib  from  his  body.  It  is  for  me  to  rule  my 
wife,  and  I  tell  you  that  I  will  not  have  it." 
After  that  the  gifts  liad  come  from  the  hands  of 
Mrs.  Arabin  ;  and  then  again,  after  that,  in  the 
direst  hour  of  his  need,  Crawley  had  himself 
come  and  taken  money  from  the  dean's  hands ! 
The  interview  had  been  so  i:ainful  tliat  Arabin 
would  hardly  have  been  able  to  count  the  mon- 
ey or  to  know  of  what  it  had  consisted  had  he 
taken  the  notes  and  check  out  of  the  envelope 
in  which  his  wife  had  put  them.  Since  that 
day  the  two  had  not  met  each  other,  and  since 
that  day  these  new  troubles  had  come.  Arabin 
as  yet  knew  but  little  of  the  manner  in  which 
they  had  been  borne,  except  that  Crawley  had 
felt  himself  compelled  to  resign  the  living  of 


342 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


Hogglestock.  He  knew  nothing  of  Mrs.  Prou- 
die's  persecution,  except  what  he  gathered  from 
the  fact  of  the  clerical  commission  of  which  he 
had  been  informed  ;  but  he  could  imagine  that 
Mrs.  Troudie  would  not  lie  easy  on  her  bed 
wliilc  a  clergyman  was  doing  duty  almost  under 
her  nose,  who  was  guilty  of  the  double  oftcnsc 
of  being  accused  of  a  theft,  and  of  having  been 
put  into  his  living  by  the  dean.  The  dean, 
therefore,  as  ho  rode  on,  pictured  to  himself  his 
old  friend  in  a  terrible  condition.  And  it  might 
be  that  even  now  that  condition  would  hardly 
have  been  improved.  He  was  no  longer  sus- 
pected of  being  a  thief;  but  he  could  have  no 
money  in  his  pocket ;  and  it  might  well  be  that 
Ilia  suft'erings  would  have  made  him  almost 
mad. 

The  dean  also  got  down  and  left  his  horse  at 
a  farm-yard — as  Grantly  had  done  with  his  car- 
riage ;  and  walked  on  first  to  the  school.  lie 
hoard  voices  inside,  but  could  not  distinguish 
from  them  whether  Mr.  Crawley  was  there  or 
not.  Slowly  he  opened  the  door,  and  looking 
round  saw  that  Jane  Crawley  was  in  the  ascend- 
ant. Jane  did  not  know  him  at  once,  but  told 
him  when  he  had  introduced  himself  tliat  her 
father  had  gone  down  to  Hoggle  End.  He  had 
started  two  houi'S  ago,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
say  when  he  might  be  back.  "  lie  sometimes 
stays  all  day  long  with  the  brickmakcrs,"  said 
Jane.  Her  mother  was  at  home,  and  she  would 
take  the  dean  into  the  house.  As  she  said  this 
she  told  him  that  her  father  was  sometimes  bet- 
ter and  sometimes  worse.  "But  he  has  never 
been  so  very,  very  bad  since  Henry  Grantly 
and  mamma's  cousin  came  and  told  us  about 
the  check."  That  word  Henry  Grantly  made 
the  dean  understand  that  there  might  yet  be  a 
ray  of  sunshine  among  the  Crawleys. 

"There  is  papa,"  said  Jane,  as  they  got  to 
the  gate.  Then  they  waited  for  a  few  minutes 
till  Mr.  Crawley  came  up,  very  hot,  wijjing  tlie 
sweat  from  his  forehead. 

"Crawley,"  said  the  dean,  "I  can  not  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  and  how  rejoiced 
I  am  that  this  accusation  has  fallen  olf  from 
you." 

"Verily  the  news  came  in  time,  Arabin," 
said  the  other;  "but  it  was  a  narrow  pinch — a 
narrow  pinch.  Will  "j-ou  not  enter,  and  see  my 
wife?" 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

MR.    CRAWLEY    SPEAKS    OF    HIS    COAT. 

At  this  time  Grace  had  returned  home  from 
Framley.  As  long  as  the  terrible  tragedy  of  the 
forthcoming  trial  was  dragging  itself  on  she  had 
been  content  to  stay  away,  at  her  mother's  bid- 
ding. It  has  not  been  possible  in  these  pages 
to  tell  of  all  the  advice  that  had  been  given  to 
tlie  ladies  of  the  Crawley  family  in  their  great 
difficulty,  and  of  all  the  assistance  that  had  been 
offered.  The  elder  Lady  Lufton  and  the  youn- 
ger and  Mrs.  Robnrts  had  continually  been  in 


consultation  on  the  subject ;  Mrs.  Grantly's  A 
opinion  had  been  asked  and  given ;  and  even 
the  Miss  Prettymans  and  Mrs.  Walker  had 
found  means  of  expressing  themselves.  The 
communications  to  Mrs.  Crawley  had  been  very 
frequent — though  they  had  not  of  course  been 
allowed  to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Crawley.  What 
was  to  be  done  when  the  living  should  be  gone 
and  Mr.  Crawley  should  be  in  prison  ?  Some 
said  that  he  might  be  there  for  six  weeks  and 
some  for  two  years.  Old  Lady  Lufton  made 
anxious  inquiries  about  Judge  Medlicotc,  before 
whom  it  was  said  that  the  trial  would  be  taken. 
Judge  Medlicote  was  a  Dissenter,  and  old  Lady 
Lufton  was  in  despair.  When  she  was  assured 
by  some  liberally-disposed  friend  that  this  would 
certainly  make  no  difference,  she  shook  her  head 
woefully.  "I  don't  know  why  we  are  to  have 
Dissenters  at  all,"  she  said,  "  to  try  people  who 
belong  to  the  Established  Church."  When  she 
heard  that  Judge  Medlicote  would  certainly  be 
the  judge,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  two  years 
would  be  the  least  of  it.  She  would  not  have 
minded  it,  she  said,  if  he  had  been  a  Roman 
Catholic.  And  whether  the  punishment  might 
be  for  six  weeks  or  for  two  years,  what  should 
be  done  with  the  family  ?  Where  should  they 
be  housed  ?  how  should  they  be  fed  ?  What 
should  be  done  with  the  poor  man  when  he  came 
out  of  prison  ?  It  was  a  case  in  which  the  gen- 
erous, soft-hearted  old  Lady  Lufton  was  almost 
beside  herself.  "As  for  Grace,"  said  young 
Lady  Lufton,  "  it  will  be  a  great  deal  better  tha-t 
we  should  keep  her  among  us.  Of  course  she 
will  become  Mrs.  Grantly,  r.nd  it  will  be  nicer 
for  him  that  it  should  be  so."  In  those  days 
the  ])Osters  had  been  seen,  and  the  flitting  to 
Pau  had  been  talked  of,  and  the  Framley  opin- 
ion was  that  Grace  had  better  remain  at  Fram- 
ley till  she  should  be  carried  off  to  Pau.  There 
were  schemes,  too,  about  Jane.  But  what  was 
to  be  done  for  the  wife  ?  And  what  was  to  be 
done  for  Mr.  Crawley  ?  Then  came  the  news 
from  Mrs.  Arabin,  and  all  interest  in  Judge 
Medlicote  was  at  an  end. 

But  even  now,  after  this  great  escape,  what 
was  to  be  done  ?  As  to  Grace,  she  had  felt  the 
absolute  necessity  of  being  obedient  to  her 
friends — with  the  consent  of  course  of  her  mo- 
ther— during  tlie  great  tribulation  of  her  family. 
Things  were  so  bad  that  she  had  not  the  heart 
to  make  them  worse  by  giving  any  unnecessary 
trouble  as  to  herself.  Having  resolved — and 
having  made  her  mother  so  understand — that  on 
one  point  she  would  guide  herself  by  her  own 
feelings,  she  was  contented  to  go  hither  and 
thither  as  she  was  told,  and  to  do  as  she  was 
bid.  Her  hope  was  that  Miss  Prettyman  would 
allow  her  to  go  back  to  her  teaching,  but  it  had 
come  to  be  understood  among  them  all  that  no- 
thing was  to  be  said  on  that  subject  till  the  trial 
should  be  over.  Till  that  time  she  would  be 
passive.  But  then,  as  I  have  said,  had  come 
the  news  from  Mrs.  Arabin,  and  Grace,  with  all 
tlie  others,  understood  that  thei'e  would  be  no 
trial.    When  this  was  known  and  acknowledged; 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


843 


slie  declared  her  purpose  of  going  back  to  Hog- 
glestock.  She  would  go  back  at  once.  When 
asked  both  by  Lady  Lufton  and  by  Mrs.  Robarts 
why  she  was  in  so  great  a  haste  she  merely  said 
that  it  must  be  so.  She  was,  as  it  were,  absolved 
from  her  passive  obedience  to  Framley  author- 
ities by  the  diminution  of  the  family  misfor- 
tunes. 

Mrs.  Robarts  understood  the  feeling  by  which 
Grace  was  hurried  away.  "  Do  you  know  why 
slic  is  so  obstinate?"  Lady  Lufton  asked. 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Robarts. 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"  Should  Major  Grantly  renew  his  offer  to 
;  her  she  is  under  a  pledge  to  accept  him  now." 

"  Of  course  he  will  renew  it,  and  of  course 
she  will  accept  him." 

"Just  so.  But  she  prefers  that  he  should 
come  for  her  to  her  own  house,  because  of  its 
poverty.  If  he  chooses  to  seek  her  there  I 
don't  think  she  will  make  much  difficulty." 
Lady  Lufton  demurred  to  this,  not,  however, 
with  anger,  and  expressed  a  certain  amount  of 
mild  displeasure.  She  did  not  quite  see  why 
Major  Grantly  should  not  be  allowed  to  come 
and  do  his  love-making  comfortably,  where  there 
was  a  decent  dinner  for  him  to  eat,  and  chairs 
and  tables  and  sofas  and  carpets.  She  said  that 
she  thought  that  something  was  due  to  Major 
Grantly.  She  was  in  truth  a  little  disappointed 
that  she  was  not  allowed  to  have  her  own  way, 
and  to  aiTange  the  marriage  at  Framley  under 
her  own  eye.  But,  through  it  all,  she  appre- 
ciated Grace  ;  and  they  who  knew  her  well  and 
heard  what  she  said  upon  the  occasion  under- 
stood that  her  favor  was  not  to  be  withdrawn. 
All  young  women  were  divided  by  old  Lady 
Lufton  into  sheep  and  goats — very  white  sheep 
and  very  black  goats — and  Grace  was  to  be  a 
sheep.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Grace  Craw- 
ley was  at  home  when  the  dean  visited  Hopgle- 
stock.  "Mamma," she  said,  looking  out  of  the^ 
window,  "  there  is  the  dean  with  papa  at  thj^ 
gate." 

"  It  was  a  narrow  squeak — a  very  narrow 
squeak,"  Mr.  Crawley  had  said  when  his  friend 
congratulated  him  on  his  escape.  The  dean 
felt  at  the  moment  that  not  for  many  years  liad 
he  heard  the  incumbent  of  Hogglestock  speak 
either  of  himself  or  of  any  thing  else  with  so 
manifest  an  attempt  at  jocularity.  Arabiu  had 
expected  to  find  the  man  broken  down  by  the 
weight  of  his  sorrows,  and  lo!  at. the  first  mo- 
ment of  their  first  interview  he  himself  l)egau  to 
ridicule  them  !  Crawley  having  thus  alluded  to 
the  narrow  squeak  had  asked  his  visitor  to  enter 
the  house  and  see  his  wife. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Arabin,  "  but  I  will 
speak  just  a  word  to  you  first."  Jane,  who  had 
accompanied  the  dean  from  the  school,  now 
left  them,  and  went  into  the  house  to  her  mo- 
ther. "My  wife  can  not  forgive  herself  about' 
the  check,"  continued  he. 

"Tiiere  is  nothing  to  be  forgiven,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley;   "nothing." 

"She  feels  that  what  she  did  was  awkward 


and  foolish.  She  ought  never  to  have  paid  a 
check  away  in  sucii  a  manner.  She  knows 
that  now." 

"  It  was  given — not  paid,"  said  Crawley  ;  and 
as  he  spoke  something  of  the  black  cloud  came 
back  upon  his  face.  "And  I  am  well  aware 
how  hard  Mrs.  Arabin  strove  to  take  away  from 
the  alms  she  bestowed  the  bitterness  of  the  sting 
of  eleemosynary  aid.  If  yon  jdease,  Araliin, 
we  will  not  talk  any  more  of  tiiat.  I  can  never 
forget  that  I  have  been  a  beggar,  but  I  need  not 
make  my  beggary  the  matter  of  conversation, 
I  hope  the  Holy  Land  has  fulfilled  your  exijcct- 
ation?" 

"It  has  more  than  done  so,"  said  the  dean, 
bewildered  by  the  sudden  change. 

"  For  myself,  it  is,  of  course,  impossible  that 
I  should  ever  visit  any  scenes  except  those  to 
which  my  immediate  work  may  call  me — never 
in  this  world.  Tlie  new  Jerusalem  is  still  with- 
in my  reach — if  it  be  not  forfeited  by  pride  and 
obstinacy ;  but  the  old  Jerusalem  I  can  never 
behold.  Methinks,  because  it  is  so,  I  would 
sooner  stand  with  my  foot  on  Mount  Olivet,  or 
drink  a  cup  of  water  in  the  village  of  Bethany, 
than  visit  any  other  spot  within  the  traveler's 
compass.  The  sources  of  the  Nile,  of  which 
men  now  talk  so  much — I  see  it  in  the  papers 
and  reviews  Avhich  the  ladies  at  Framley  are  so 
good  as  to  send  to  my  wife — do  not  interest  me 
much.  I  have  no  ambition  to  climb  Mont  Blanc 
or  the  Matterhorn  ;  Rome  makes  my  mouth  wa- 
ter but  little,  nor  even  Athens  much.  I  can  real- 
ize without  seeing  all  that  Athens  could  show 
me,  and  can  fancy  that  the  existing  truth  would 
destroy  more  than  it  would  build  up.  But  to 
have  stood  on  Calvary!" 

"We  don't  know  where  Calvary  Avas,"  said 
the  dean. 

"  I  fancy  that  I  should  know — should  know 
enough,''  said  the  illogical  and  unreasonable 
Mr.  Crawley.  "Is  it  true  that  you  can  look 
over  from  the  spot  on  which  He  stood  as  He 
came  across  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  see  the 
huge  stones  of  the  Temple  placed  there  by  Solo- 
mon's men — as  He  saw  them — riglit  across  the 
brook  Cedron,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  It  is  all  there,  Crawley — ^just  as  your  knowl- 
edge of  it  tells  you." 

"  In  the  privilege  of  seeing  those  places  I  can 
almost  envy  a  man  his — money."  The  last 
word  he  uttered  after  a  pause.  He  had  been 
about  to  say  that  under  such  temptation  he  could 
almost  envy  a  man  his  promotion ;  but  he  be- 
thought himself  that  on  such  an  occasion  as  this 
it  would  be  better  that  he  should  spare  the  dean. 
"And  now,  if  you  wish  it,  m'C  will  go  in.  I 
fancy  that  I  see  my  wife  at  the  window,  as 
though  slie  were  waiting  for  us."  So  saying, 
he  strode  on  along  the  little  path,  and  the  dean 
was  fain  to  follow  him,  even  though  he  had 
said  so  little  of  all  that  he  had  intended  to 
sa3^ 

As  soon  as  lie  was  with  Mrs.  Crawley  he  re- 
peated liis  apology  about  the  check,  and  found 
liimsclf  better  able  to  explain  himself  than  he 


could  do  when  alone  with  her  husband 
course  it  has  been  our  fault,"  he  said. 

"Oil  no,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley;  "how  can 
you  have  been  in  fault  when  your  only  object 
was  to  do  us  Kiiod?"  IJut  iievertlieless  the 
dean  took  the  blame  ujjon  his  own  shoulders, 
or,  rather,  upon  those  vi'  his  wife,  and  declared 
liiniself  to  be  responsible  for  all  the  trouble  about 
the  check. 

"Let  it  go,"  said  Crawley,  after  sitting  for 
a.  while  in  silence  ;   "  let  it  j)ass." 

"You  can  not  wonder,  Crawley,"  said  the 
dean,  "  that  I  should  have  felt  myself  obliged 
to  speak  of  it." 

"For  the  future  it  Avill  be  well  that  it  should 
be  forgotten,"  said  Crawley  ;  "  or,  if  not  forgot- 
ten, treated  as  though  forgotten.  And  now, 
dean,  what  must  I  do  about  the  living?" 

"Just  resume  it,  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 

"But  that  may  hardly  be  done  without  tlie 
bislio])'s  authority.  I  sjieak,  of  course,  with  def- 
erence to  your  higher  and  better  information 
on  such  sid)jects.  My  experience  in  the  taking 
u])  and  laying  down  of  livings  has  not  been  ex- 
tended. But  it  seeraeth  to  me  that  though  it 
may  certainly  be  in  your  power  to  nominate  me 
again  to  the  perpetual  curacy  of  this  parish — 
presuming  your  patronage  to  be  unlimited  and 
not  to  reach  you  in  rotation  only — yet  the  bish- 
oj)  may  demand  to  institute  again,  and  must  so 
demand,  unless  he  pleases  to  permit  that  my 
letter  to  him  shall  be  revoked  and  canceled." 

"Of  course  he  will  not  do  any  thing  of  that 
kind.  lie  must  know  the  circumstances  as  well 
as  you  and  I  do." 

"At  present  they  tell  me  that  he  is  much  af- 
flicted by  the  death  of  his  wife,  and  therefore 
can  hardly  be  expected  to  take  immediate  action. 
There  came  here  on  the  last  Sunday  one  Mr. 
Snajiper,  his  lordsiiip's  chaplain." 

"We  all  know  Snapper,"  said  the  dean. 
"  Snapper  is  not  a  bad  little  fellow." 

"  I  say  nothing  of  his  being  bad,  my  friend, 
but  merely  mention  the  fact  that  on  Sunday 
moniiiig  last  he  performed  the  service  in  our 
cliurch.  On  the  Sunday  previous  one  Mr. 
Tliumble  was  here." 

"  We  all  know  Tliumble,  too,"  said  the  dean  ; 
"  or,  at  least,  know  something  about  him." 

"He  has  been  a  thorn  in  our  sides,"  said 
Mrs  Crawley,  unable  to  restrain  the  expression 
of  her  dislike  when  Mr.  Thumble's  name  was 
mentioned. 

"  Nay,  my  dear,  nay ;  do  not  allow  yourself 
the  use  of  language  so  strong  against  a  brother. 
Our  flesh  at  that  time  was  somewhat  prone  to 
fester;  and  little  thorns  made  us  very  sore." 

"  lie  is  a  horrible  man,"  said  Jane,  almost 
in  a  whisper ;  but  the  words  were  distinctly  aud- 
ible by  the  dean. 

"They  need  not  come  anymore,"  said  Arabin. 

"That  is  where  I  fear  we  differ.  I  think 
tliey  must  come — or  some  others  in  their  place — 
till  the  bislio])  shall  have  expressed  his  pleasure 
to  the  coiitrarv.     I  have  submitted  mvself  to 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 
Of 


his  lordship,  and,  having  done  so,  feel  that  I 
can  not  again  go  uji  into  my  pulpit  till  he  shall 
have  authorized  me  to  do  so.  For  a  time,  Ara- 
bin, I  combated  the  bislio)),  believing — then  and 
now — that  he  put  forth  his  hand  against  me  aft- 
er n  fashion  which  the  law  had  not  sanctioned. 
And  I  made  bold  to  stand  in  his  presence  and 
to  tell  him  that  I  would  not  obey  him  except 
in  things  legal.  But  afterward,  when  he  pro- 
ceeded formally,  through  the  action  of  a  com- 
mission, I  submitted  myself.  And  I  regard 
mvself  still  as  being  under  submission." 

It  was  iinj)ossible  to  shake  him.  Arabin  re- 
mained there  for  more  than  an  hour,  trying  to 
j)ass  on  to  another  subject,  but  being  constantly 
brought  back  by  Mr.  Crawley  himself  to  the 
fact  of  his  own  de])endent  position.  Nor  would 
he  condescend  to  su])])licate  the  bishop.  It  was, 
he  surmised,  the  duty  of  Dr.  Tempest,  together 
with  the  other  four  clergymen,  to  rejiort  to  the 
bislio])  on  the  question  of  the  alleged  theft ;  and 
then  doubtless  the  bishop,  when  he  had  duly 
considered  the  report,  and — as  Mr.  Crawley 
seemed  to  think  was  essentially  necessary — had 
sufiiciently  recovered  from  the  grief  at  his  wife's 
death,  would,  at  his  leisure,  communicate  his 
decision  to  Mr.  Crawley.  Nothing  could  be 
more  complete  than  ISIr.  Crawley's  humility  in 
reference  to  the  bishop ;  and  he  never  seemed 
to  be  tired  of  declaring  that  he  had  submitted 
himself! 

And  then  the  dean,  finding  it  to  be  vain  to 
expect  to  be  left  alone  with  Mr.  Crawley  for  a 
moment — in  vain  also  to  wait  for  a  proper  ojjcn- 
ing  for  that  which  he  had  to  say — rushed  vio- 
lently at  his  other  subject.  "And  now,  Mrs. 
Crawley,"  he  said,  "  Mrs.  Arabin  wishes  you  all 
'to  come  over  to  the  deanery  for  a  while  and  stay 
with  us." 

"  Mrs.  Arabin  is  too  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley, looking  across  at  her  husband. 

"We  should  like  it  of  all  things,  "said  the 
dean,  with  perhaps  more  of  good-nature  than  of 
truth.  ' '  Of  course  you  must  have  been  knocked 
about  a  good  deal." 

"Indeed  we  have,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"And  till  you  are  somewhat  settled  again  I 
think  that  the  change  of  scene  would  be  good 
for  all  of  you.  Come,  Crawdey,  I'll  talk  to  you 
every  evening  about  Jerusalem  for  as  long  as 
you  jdease ;  and  then  there  will  perhaps  come 
back  to  us  something  of  the  pleasantness  of  old 
days."  As  she  heard  this  ]\Irs.  Crawley's  eyes 
became  full  of  tears,  and  she  could  not  altogeth- 
er hide  them.  What  she  had  endured  during 
the  last  four  months  had  almost  broken  her  spirit. 
The  burden  had  at  last  been  too  heavy  for  her 
strength.  "  You  can  not  fancy,  Crawley,  how 
often  I  have  thought  of  the  old  days  and  wished 
tliat  they  might  return.  I  have  found  it  very 
hard  to  get  an  opportunity  of  saying  so  much  to 
you  ;  but  I  will  say  it  now." 

"  It  may  liardly  be  as  you  say,"  said  Crawley, 
grimly. 

"You  mean  that  the  old  days  can  never  be 
brought  back?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


345 


"Assuredly  they  can  not.  But  it  was  not 
tliat  that  I  meant.  It  may  not  be  that  I  and 
mine  sliould  transfer  ourselves  to  your  roof  and 
sojourn  there." 

"\Vhy  should  you  not?" 

"The  reasons  are  many,  and  on  the  face  of 
thin<;s.  The  reason,  perha))S,  the  most  on  the 
f;ice  is  to  be  found  in  my  wife's  t^own  and  in  my 
coat."  This  Mr.  Crawley  said  very  gravely, 
lookinf;  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  noy 
at  the  face  of  any  of  them,  nor  at  his  own  gar- 
ment, nor  at  hers,  but  straight  before  him  ;  and 
when  he  had  so  spoken  he  said  not  a  wortl  fur- 
tlier — not  going  on  to  dilate  on  liis  jjoverty  as 
the  dean  expected  that  he  would  do. 

"At  such  a  time  such  reasons  should  stand 
for  nothing,"  said  the  dean. 

"And  why  not  now  as  they  always  do,  and 
always  must  till  the  power  of  tailors  shall  have 
waned,  and  the  daugliters  of  Eve  shall  toil  and 
spin  no  more?  Like  to  like  is  true,  and  should 
be  held  to  be  true,  of  all  societies  and  of  all  com- 
pacts for  co-operation  and  mutual  living.  Here, 
where,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  you  and  I  are 
like  to  like,  for  the  new  gloss  of  your  coat" — 
the  dean,  as  it  happened,  had  on  at  the  moment 
a  very  old  coat,  his  oldest  coat,  selected  perhaps 
with  some  view  to  this  special  visit — "  does  not 
obtrude  itself  in  my  household  as  would  the 
threadbare  texture  of  mine  in  yours,  I  can  open 
my  mouth  to  you  and  converse  with  you  at  my 
case  ;  you  are  now  to  me  that  Frank  Arabin  who 
has  so  often  comforted  me  and  so  often  confuted 
me ;  whom  I  may  perhaps  on  an  occasion  have 
confuted — and  perhaps  have  comforted.  But 
were  I  sitting  with  you  in  your  library  in  Bar- 
chester  my  threadbare  coat  would  be  too  much 
for  me.  I  should  be  silent,  if  not  sullen.  I 
should  feel  the  weight  of  all  my  poverty,  and  the 
greater  weight  of  all  your  wealth.  For  my 
children,  let  them  go.  I  have  come  to  know 
that  they  will  be  better  away  from  me." 

"  Papa !"  said  Jane.  ♦ 

"  Papa  does  not  mean  it," said  Grace,  coming 
up  to  him  and  standing  close  to  him. 

There  was  silence  among  them  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  the  master  of  the  house  shook 
himself — literally  shook  himself,  till  he  had 
shaken  off  the  cloud.  He  had  taken  Grace  by 
the  hand,  and  thrusting  out  the  other  arm  had 
got  it  round  Jane's  waist.  "When  a  man  has 
girls,  Arabin,"  he  said,  "as  you  have,  but  not 
big  girls  yet  like  Grace  here,  of  course  he  knows 
that  they  will  fly  away." 

"  I  shall  not  fly  away,"  said  Jane. 

"I  don't  know  what  papa  means, "said  Grace. 

Upon  the  wliole  the  dean  thought  it  the  pleas- 
antest  visit  he  had  ever  made  to  Hogglestock, 
and  when  he  got  home  he  told  his  wife  that  he 
believed  that  the  accusation  made  against  Mr. 
Crawley  had  done  him  good.  "  I  could  not  say 
a  word  in  private  to  her,"  he  said,  "but  I  did 
promise  that  you  would  go  and  see  her."  On 
the  very  next  day  Mrs.  Arabin  went  over,  and 
I  tliiuk  that  the  visit  was  a  comfort  to  Mrs. 
Crawlev. 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

miss    DEMOLINES    DESIKKS    TO    BECOME    A 
FINGEU-I'OST. 

John  Eames  had  passed  Mrs.  Thorne  in  ihe 
hall  of  her  own  house  almost  without  noticing 
her  as  he  took  his  departure  from  Lily  Dale, 
yiie  had  told  him  as  plainly  as  words  could 
speak  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  be  his 
wife — and  he  had  believed  her.  He  had  sworn 
to  himself  that  if  he  did  not  succeed  now  he 
would  never  ask  her  again.  "  It  would  be  fool- 
ish and  unnuinly  to  do  so,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  rushed  along  the  street  toward  his  club. 
No !  That  romance  was  over.  At  last  there 
had  come  an  end  to  it!  "It  has  taken  a  good 
bit  out  of  me,"  he  said,  arresting  his  steps  sud- 
denly that  he  might  stand  still  and  think  of  it 
all.  By  George,  yes !  A  man  doesn't  go 
through  that  kind  of  thing  without  losing  some 
of  the  caloric.  I  couldn't  do  it  again  if  an  an- 
gel came  in  my  way."  He  went  to  his  club, 
and  tried  to  be  jolly.  He  ordered  a  good  din- 
ner, and  got  some  man  to  come  and  dine  with 
him.  For  an  hour  or  so  he  held  himself  up,  and 
did  appear  to  be  jolly.  But  as  he  walked  home 
at  night,  and  gave  himself  time  to  think  over 
what  had  taken  place  with  deliberation,  he 
stopped  in  the  gloom  of  a  deserted  street,  and 
leaning  against  the  rails  burst  into  tears.  He 
had  really  loved  her,  and  she  was  never  to  be  his. 
He  had  wanted  her— and  it  is  so  painful  a  thing 
to  miss  what  you  want  when  you  have  done  your 
very  best  to  obtain  it!  To  struggle  in  vain  al- 
ways hurts  the  pride;  but  the  wound  made  by 
tiie  vain  struggle  for  a  woman  is  sorer  than  any 
other  wound  so  made.  He  gnashed  his  teeth, 
and  struck  the  iron  railings  with  his  stick ;  and 
then  he  hurried  home,  swearing  that  he  would 
never  give  another  thought  to  Lily  Dale.  In 
the  dead  of  the  night,  thinking  of  it  still,  he 
asked  himself  whether  it  would  not  be  a  fine 
thing  to  wait  another  ten  years,  and  then  go  to 
her  again.  In  such  a  way  would  he  not  make 
himself  immortal  as  a  lover  beyond  any  Jacob 
or  any  Leander? 

The  next  day  he  went  to  his  office  and  was 
very  grave.  When  Sir  Raffle  complimented 
him  on  being  back  before  his  time,  he  simply 
said  that  when  he  had  accomplished  that  for 
which  he  had  gone,  he  had,  of  course,  come 
back.  Sir  Raffle  could  not  get  a  word  out  from 
him  about  Mr.  Crawley.  He  was  very  grave, 
and  intent  upon  his  work.  Indeed  he  was  so 
serious  that  he  quite  afflicted  Sir  Raffle,  whose 
mock  activity  felt  itself  to  be  confounded  by  the 
official  zeal  of  his  private  secretary.  During 
the  whole  of  that  day  Johnny  was  resolving  that 
there  could  be  no  cure  for  his  malady  but  hard 
work.  He  would  not  only  work  hard  at  the  of- 
fice if  he  remained  there,  but  he  would  take  to 
heavy  reading.  He  rather  thought  that  he 
would  go  deep  into  Greek  and  do  a  translation, 
or  take  up  the  exact  sciences  and  make  a  name 
for  himself  that  w.ay.  But  as  he  had  enough 
for  the  life  of  a  secluded  literary  man  without 


346 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET 


his  salary,  he  rather  thought  that  he  would  give 
up  his  office  altogether.  He  had  a  mutton-chop 
at  liomc  that  evening,  and  si>cnt  his  time  in 
endeavoring  to  read  out  loud  to  himself  certain 
passages  from  tlie  Iliad — for  he  had  bought  a 
Homer  as  he  returned  from  his  office.  At  nine 
o'clock  he  went,  half-price,  to  tiic  Strand  Theatre. 
How  lie  met  tlicre  his  old  friend  Roulgcr,  and 
went  afterward  to  "  Tiie  Cock"  and  liad  a  sup- 
jpcr,  need  not  here  be  told  with  more  accurate 
detail. 

On  the  evening  of  the  next  day  he  was  bound 
by  his  appointment  to  go  to  Torchcstcr  Terrace. 
In  the  moments  of  his  enthusiasm  about  Homer 
he  had  declared  to  himself  that  he  would  never 
go  near  Miss  Demolines  again.  Wliy  should 
he  ?  All  that  kind  of  tiling  was  nothing  to  him 
now.  He  would  simply  send  her  his  compli- 
ments, and  say  tliat  he  was  jirevented  by  busi- 
ness from  kcejnng  his  engagement.  She,  of 
course,  would  go  on  writing  to  him  for  a  time, 
but  he  would  simply  leave  her  letters  unanswer- 
ed, and  the  thing,  of  course,  would  come  to  an 
end  at  last.  He  afterward  said  something  to 
Boulger  about  Miss  Demolines — but  that  was 
during  the  jollity  of  their  sujjper — and  he  then 
declared  that  he  would  follow  out  that  little 
game.  "  I  don't  see  wliy  a  follow  isn't  to  amuse 
himself,  eh,  Boulger,  old  boy?"  Boulger  wink- 
ed and  grinned,  and  said  that  some  amuse- 
ments were  dangerous.  "I  don't  think  that 
there  is  any  danger  there,"  said  Johnny.  "I 
don't  believe  she  is  thinking  of  tliat  kind  of 
thing  herself — not  with  me,  at  least.  What  she 
likes  is  the  pretense  of  a  mystery ;  and  as  it  is 
amusing  I  don't  see  why  a  fellow  shouldn't  in- 
dulge her."  But  that  determination  was  pro- 
nounced after  two  mutton-chops  at  "The  Cock," 
between  one  and  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
On  the  next  day  he  was  cooler  and  wiser.  Greek 
he  thought  might  be  tedious,  as  he  discovered 
that  lie  would  have  to  begin  again  from  the  very 
alpliabst.  He  would  therefore  abandon  that  idea. 
Greek  was  not  the  thing  for  him,  but  he  would 
take  up  the  sanitary  condition  of  the  poor  in 
London.  A  fellow  could  be  of  some  use  in  that 
way.  In  the  tnean  time  he  would  keep  his  ap- 
pointment with  Miss  Demolines,  siinjily  because 
it  was  an  a])pointment.  A  gentleman  should 
always  keep  his  word  to  a  lady ! 

He  did  keep  his  appointment  with  Miss  Demo- 
lines, and  was  with  her  almost  precisely  at  the 
hour  slie  had  named.  Siie  received  him  with 
a  mysterious  tranquillity  which  almost  perplexed 
him.  He  remembered,  however,  that  the  way 
to  enjoy  the  society  of  Miss  Demolines  was  to 
take  her  in  ail  her  moods  with  perfect  serious- 
ness, and  was  therefore  very  tranquil  himself. 
On  the  present  occasion  she  did  not  rise  as  he 
entered  the  room,  and  hardly  spoke  as  she  tend- 
ered to  him  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  be  touch- 
ed. As  she  said  almost  nothing,  he  said  no- 
thrng  at  all,  but  sank  into  a  chair  and  stretched 
his  legs  out  comfortably  before  him.  It  had 
been  always  understood  between  them  that  she 
was  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  conversation. 


"You'll  have  a  cup  of  tea?"  she  said. 

"Yes — if  you  do."  Then  the  page  brought 
the  tea,  and  John  Eames  amused  himself  with 
swallowing  three  slices  of  very  thin  Ijread  and 
butter. 

"  None  for  me — thanks,"  said  Madalina.  "  I 
rarely  cat  after  dinner,  and  not  often  much  then. 
I  fancy  that  I  should  best  like  a  world  in  which 
there  was  no  eating." 

"A  good  dinner  is  a  very  good  thing,"  said 
John.  And  then  there  was  again  silence.  He 
was  aware  that  some  great  secret  was  to  be  told 
to  him  during  this  evening,  but  he  was  much  too 
discreet  to  show  any  curiosity  upon  that  subject. 
He  sipped  his  tea  to  the  end,  and  then,  having 
got  up  to  put  his  cuj)  down,  stood  on  the  rug 
with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "  Have  you  been  out 
to-day  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  have." 

"And  you  are  tired?" 

"Very  tired!" 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  betternot  keep  you  up." 

"Your  remaining  will  make  no  ditference  in 
that  respect.  I  »lon't  suppose  that  I  shall  be  in 
bed  for  the  next  four  hours.  But  do  as  you  like 
about  going." 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,  "said  Johnny.  Then  he 
sat  down  again,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  made 
himself  comfortable. 

"  I  have  been  to  see  thai  woman,"  said  Mad- 
alina, after  a  pause. 

"  What  woman?" 

"Maria  Clutteibuck — as  I  must  always  call 
her;  for  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  pronounce 
the  name  of  that  poor  wretch  who  was  done  to 
death." 

"  He  blew  his  brains  out  in  delirium  tremens," 
said  Johnny. 

"And  what  made  him  drink  ?"  said  Madalina, 
with  emjihasis.  "Never  mind.  I  decline  al- 
together to  spejik  of  it.  Such  a  sceiie  as  I  have 
had !  I  was  driven  at  last  to  tell  her  what  I 
thought  ^f  her.  Any  thing  so  callous,  so  heart- 
less, so  selfisli,  so  stone-cold,  and  so  childish  I 
never  saw  before !  That  Maria  was  childish  and 
selfish  I  always  knew ;  but  I  thought  there  was 
some  heart — a  vestige  of  heart.  I  found  to-day 
that  tliei-c  was  none — none.  If  you  please,  wo 
won't  sjjcak  of  her  any  more." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Johnny. 

"  You  need  not  wonder  that  I  am  tired  and 
feverish." 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  fatiguing,  I  dare  say. 
I' don't  know  whether  we  do  not  lose  more  than 
we  gain  by  those  strong  emotions." 

"  I  would  rather  die  and  go  beneath  the  sod 
at  once  than  live  without  them,"  said  Madalina. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  taste,"  said  Johnny. 

"It  is  there  that  that  poor  wretch  is  so  defi- 
cient. She  is  thinking  now,  this  moment,  of 
nothing  but  her  creature  comforts.  That  trag- 
edy has  not  even  stirred  her  pulses." 

"  If  her  pulses  were  stirred  ever  so  that  would 
not  make  her  happy." 

"Happv!     Who  is  happy?     Arc  you  hap- 

py?" 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OP  BARSET. 


347 


Johnny  thon;:ht  of  Lily  Dale,  and  jiauseJ  be- 
fore he  answrM'cd.  No;  certainly  he  was  not 
happy.  But  lie  was  not  goin<^'  to  talk  about  his 
unhappiness  to  Miss  Demolincs.  "  Of  course  I 
am — as  jolly  as  a  sandboy,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Eames,"  said  Madalina,  raising  herself 
on  her  sofa,  "if  yon  can  not  express  yourself  in 
language  more  suitable  to  the  occasion  and  to 
the  scene  than  tiiat,  I  think  that  you  had  bet- 
ter— " 

"  Hold  my  tongue." 

"Just  so,  though  I  should  not  have  chosen 
myself  to  use  words  so  abruptly  discourteous." 

"  What  did  I  say — ^jolly  as  a  sandboy  ?  There 
is  nothing  wrong  in  that.  What  I  meant  was, 
that  I  think  that  this  world  is  a  very  good  sort 
of  world,  and  that  a  man  can  get  along  in  it 
very  well  if  ho  minds  his;»s  and  qs." 

"But  suppose  it's  a  woman ?" 

"Easier  still." 

"  And  suppose  she  does  not  mind  her  7)8  and 
5s?" 

"Women  always  do." 

"  Do  they  ?  Your  knowledge  of  women  goes 
as  far  as  that,  docs  it?  Tell  me  fairh- — do  you 
think  you  know  any  thing  about  women?" 
Madalina,  as  she  asked  the  question,  looked  full 
into  his  face,  and  shook  her  locks  and  smiled. 
When  she  shook  her  locks  and  smiled  there  was 
a  certain  attraction  about  her  of  which  John 
Eames  was  fully  sensible.  She  could  throw  a 
special  brightness  into  her  eyes,  which,  though 
it  probably  betokened  nothing  truly  beyond  ill- 
natured  mischief,  seemed  to  convey  a  promise 
of  wit  and  intellect. 

"I  don't  mean  to  make  any  boast  about  it," 
said  Johnny. 

"I  doubt  whether  you  know  any  thing.  The 
pretty  simplicity  of  your  excellent  Lily  Dale 
has  sufficed  for  you." 

"  Never  mind  about  her,"  said  Johnny,  im- 
patfently. 

"I  do  not  mind  about  her  in  the  least.  But 
an  insight  into  that  sort  of  simplicity  will  not 
teach  you  the  character  of  a  real  woman.  You 
can  not  learn  the  flavor  of  wines  by  sipping 
sherry  and  water.  For  myself  I  do  not  think 
that  I  am  simple.  I  own  it  fairly.  If  you 
must  have  simplicity,  I  can  not  be  to  your 
taste." 

"Nobody  likes  partridge  always, "said  John- 
ny, laughing. 

"  I  understand  yon,  Sir.  And  though  what 
you  say  is  not  complimentary,  I  am  willing  to 
forgive  that  fault  for  its  truth.  I  don't  consider 
myself  to  be  always  partridge,  I  can  assure  you. 
I  am  as  changeable  as  the  moon." 

"  And  as  fickle  ?" 

"  I  say  nothing  about  that.  Sir.  I  leave  you 
to  find  tliat  out.  It  is  a  man's  business  to  dis- 
cover that  for  himself.  If  you  really  do  know 
aught  of  women — " 

"  I  did  not  say  t-hat  I  did." 

"But  if  you  do,  you  will  perhaps  have  dis- 
covered that  a  woman  may  be  as  changeable  as 
the  moon,  and  yet  as  true  as  the  sun  ;  that  she 


may  flit  from  flower  to  flower,  quite  unheeding 
while  no  passion  exists,  but  that  a  passion  fixes 
her  at  once.  Do  you  believe  me?"  Now  she 
looked  into  his  eyes  again,  but  did  not  smile  and 
did  not  shake  her  locks. 

"  Oh  yes — that's  true  enough.  And  when 
they  have  a  lot  of  children,  then  they  become 
steady  as  niilc-stones." 

"  Children  !"  said  Madalina,  getting  up  and 
walking  about  the  room. 

"  They  do  have  them,  you  know, ''  said  Johnny. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Sir,  that  I  should  be 
a  milestone?" 

"A  finger-post,"  said  Johnny,  "to  show  a 
fellow  the  way  he  ought  to  go." 

She  walked  twice  across  the  room  without 
speaking.  Then  she  came  and  stood  opposite 
to  him,  still  without  speaking ;  and  tlien  she 
walked  about  again.  "What  could  a  woman 
better  be  than  a  finger-post,  as  you  call  it,  with 
such  a  purpose  ?" 

"Nothing  better,  of  course;  though  a  mile- 
stone, to  tell  a  fellow  his  distances,  is  very  good." 

"Pshaw !" 

"You  don't  like  the  idea  of  being  a  mile- 
stone." 

"No!" 

"Then  yon  can  make  up  your  mind  to  be  a 
finger-post." 

"John,  shall  I  be  a  finger-post  for  j-ou?" 
She  stood  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  or 
two,  with  her  eyes  full  of  love,  as  though  she 
were  going  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms.  And 
she  would  have  done  so,  no  doubt,  instantly, 
had  he  risen  to  his  legs.  As  it  was,  after  hav- 
ing gazed  at  him  for  the  moment  with  her  love- 
laden  eyes,  she  flung  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  hid 
her  fiice  among  the  cushions. 

He  had  felt  that  it  was  coming  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour ;  and  he  had  felt,  also,  that 
he  was  quite  unable  to  help  himself.  He  did 
not  believe  that  he  should  ever  be  reduced  to 
marrying  Miss  Demolines,  but  he  did  see  plain- 
ly enough  that  he  was  getting  into  trouble  ;  and 
yet,  for  his  life,  he  could  not  help  himself.  The 
moth  who  flutters  round  the  light  knows  that  he 
is  being  burned,  and  yet  he  can  not  fly  away 
from  it.  When  Madalina  had  begun  to  talk  to 
him  about  women  in  general,  and  then  about 
herself,  and  had  told  him  that  such  a  woman  as 
herself — even  one  so  liable  to  the  disturbance  of 
violent  emotions — might  yet  be  as  true  and  hon- 
est as  the  sim,  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  get  up 
and  make  his  escape.  He  did  not  exactly  know 
how  the  catastrophe  would  come,  but  he  was 
quite  sure  that  if  he  remained  there  he  would  be 
called  upon  in  some  way  for  a  declaration  of  his 
sentiments,  and  that  the  call  would  be  one 
which  all  his  wit  would  not  enable  him  to  an- 
swer with  any  comfort.  It  was  very  well  jest- 
ing about  mile-stones,  but  every  jest  brought  him 
nearer  to  the  precipice.  He  perceived  that 
however  ludicrous  might  be  the  image  which  his 
words  produced,  she  was  clever  enough  in  some 
way  to  turn  that  image  to  her  own  purpose.  He 
had  called  a  woman  a  finger-post,  and  forthwith 


548 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


she  had  oft'ered  to  come  to  him  and  be  finger- 
post to  him  for  life !  What  was  he  to  say  to 
lier?  It  was  clear  tiiat  lie  must  say  something. 
As  at  this  moment  siie  was  sobbing  violently 
lie  could  not  pass  the  oiler  by  as  a  joke.  Wo- 
men will  say  that  his  answer  should  have  been 
very  simple,  and  his  escape  very  easy.  But  men 
will  understand  that  it  i.s  not  easy  to  reject  even  a 
Miss  Demolines  when  she  oilers  herself  for  mat- 
rimony. And,  moreover — as  Johnny  bethought 
himself  at  this  crisis  of  his  fate — Lady  Demolines 
was  no  doubt  at  the  other  side  of  the  drawing- 
room  door,  ready  to  stop  him  should  he  attemj)t 
to  run  away.  In  the  mean  time  the  sobs  on  the 
sofa  became  violent,  and  still  more  violent.  He 
had  not  even  yet  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do, 
when  Madalina,  springing  to  her  feet,  stood  be- 
fore him,  with  her  curls  wildly  waving  and  her 
arms  extended.  "Let  it  be  as  though  it  were 
unsaid,"  she  exclaimed.  John  Eames  had  not 
the  slightest  objection ;  but  nevertheless  there 
was  a  difficulty  even  in  this.  Were  he  simply 
to  assent  to  this  latter  proposition,  it  could  not 
be  but  that  the  feminine  nature  of  Miss  Demo- 
lines would  be  outraged  by  so  uncomplimentary 
an  acquiescence.  He  felt  that  he  ought  at  least 
to  hesitate  a  little — to  make  some  pretense  at 
closing  upon  the  rich  offer  that  had  been  made 
to  him  ;  only  that  were  lie  to  show  any  such  pre- 
tense the  rich  offer  would,  no  doubt,  be  repeated. 
His  Madalina  had  twitted  him  in  the  earlier 
part  of  their  interview  witli  knowing  nothing  of 
the  nature  of  women.  He  did  know  enough  to 
feel  assured  than  any  false  step  on  his  part  now 
would  lead  him  into  very  serious  difficulties. 
"  Let  it  be  as  though  it  were  unsaid  !  Why,  oh, 
why,  have  I  betrayed  myself?"  exclaimed  Mad- 
alina. 

John  now  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and  com- 
ing up  to  her  took  her  by  the  arm  and  spoke  a 
word.  "Compose yourself,"  he  said.  He  spoke 
in  his  most  affectionate  voice,  and  he  stood  very 
close  to  her. 

"How  easy  it  is  to  bid  me  do  that,"  said 
Madalina.  "  Tell  the  sea  to  compose  itself 
when  it  rages!" 

"Madalina!"  said  he. 

"  Well— whiit  of  Madalina?  Madalina  has 
lost  her  own  respect — forever." 

"Do  not  say  tliat." 

"Oh,  John— why  did  you  ever  come  here? 
Why  ?  Why  did  we  meet  at  that  fatal  woman's 
house?  Or,  meeting  so,  why  did  we  not  part 
as  strangers  ?  Sir,  why  have  you  come  here  to 
my  mother's  house  day  after  day,  evening  after 
evening,  if —  Oh  Heavens !  what  am  I  saying  ? 
I  wonder  whether  you  will  scorn  me  always  ?" 

"  I  will  never  scorn  you." 

"And  you  will  pardon  me?" 

"  Madalina,  there  is  nothing  to  pardon." 

"And — you  will  love  me?"  Then,  without 
waiting  for  any  more  encouraging  reply — un- 
able, probably,  to  wait  a  moment  longer — she 
sunk  upon  his  bosom.  He  caught  her,  of  course 
— and  at  tliat  moment  the  drawing-room  door 
was  opened,  and  Lady  Demolines  entered  the 


chamber.  John  Eames  detected  at  a  glance 
the  skirt  of  tiie  old  white  dressing-gown  which  he 
Jiad  seen  whisking  away  on  the  occasion  of  his 
last  visit  at  rorchcster  Terrace.  But  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion  Lady  Demolines  wore  over  it  a  short 
red  opera-cloak,  and  the  cap  on  her  head  was 
ornamented  with  colored  ribbons.  "What  is 
this  ?"  she  said,  "  and  why  am  I  thus  disturbed  ?" 
Madalina  lay  motionless  in  Johnny's  arms,  while 
the  old  woman  glowered  at  him  from  under  the 
colored  ribbons.  "Mr.  Eames,  what  is  it  that 
I  behold  ?"  she  said. 

"Your  daughter,  madam,  seems  to  be  a  little 
unwell,"  said  Johnny.  Madalina  kept  her  feet 
firm  upon  the  ground,  but  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment lose  her  purchase  against  Johnny's  waist- 
coat. Her  respirations  came  very  strong,  but 
they  came  a  good  deal  stronger  when  he  men- 
tioned the  fact  that  she  was  not  so  well  as  she 
might  be. 

"  Unwell !"  suid  Lady  Demolines.  And  John 
was  stricken  at  the  moment  with  a  conviction 
that  her  ladyshi])  must  have  passed  the  early 
years  of  her  life  upon  the  stage.  "You  would 
trifle  with  me.  Sir.  Beware  that  you  do  not 
trifle  with  her — witii  Madalina!" 

"My  mother,"  said  Madalina;  but  still  she 
did  not  give  up  her  purchase,  and  the  voice 
seemed  to  come  half  from  her  and  half  from  John- 
ny. "  Come  to  me,  my  mother."  Then  Lady 
Demolines  hastened  to  her  daughter,  and  Mada- 
lina between  them  was  gradually  laid  at  her  length 
upon  the  sofa.  The  work  of  laying  her  out,  how- 
ever, was  left  almost  entirely  to  the  stronger  arm 
of  Mr.  John  Eames.  "Thanks,  mother,"  said 
Madalina ;  but  she  had  not  as  yet  opened  her  eyes, 
even  for  an  instant.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  go 
now,"  said  Johnny.  The  old  woman  looked  at 
him  with  eyes  which  asked  him  whether  "  he 
didn't  wish  he  might  get  it"  as  plainly  as  though 
the  words  had  been  pronounced.  "  Of  course 
I'll  wait  if  I  can  be  of  any  service,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  must  know  more  of  this,  Sir,  before  you 
leave  the  house,"  said  Lady  Demolines.  He 
saw  that  between  them  both  there  might  proba- 
bly be  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  in  store  for 
iiim;  but  he  swore  to  himself  that  no  union  of 
dragon  and  tigress  should  extract  from  him  a 
word  that  could  be  taken  as  a  promise  of  mar- 
riage. 

The  old  woman  was  now  kneeling  by  the 
head  of  the  sofa,  and  Johnny  was  standing  close 
by  her  side.  Suddenly  Madalina  opened  her 
eyes — opened  them  very  wide,  and  gazed  around 
her.  Then  slowly  she  raised  herself  on  the  sofa, 
and  turned  her  face  first  upon  her  mother  and 
then  upon  Johnny.  "  You  here,  mamma ! "  she 
said. 

"Dearest  one,  I  am  near  you.  Be  not 
afraid,"  said  her  ladyship. 

"Afraid !  Vi^hy  should  I  be  afraid  ?  John  ! 
My  own  John!  IMamma,  he  is  my  own."  And 
she  put  out  her  arms  to  him,  as  though  calling 
to  him  to  come  to  licr.  Things  were  now  very 
bad  with  John  Eames — so  bad  that  he  would 
have  given  a  considerable  lump  out  of  Lord  de 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


349 


Guest's  legacy  to  be  able  to  escape  at  once  into 
the  street.  The  power  of  a  woman,  when  she 
chooses  to  use  it  recklessly,  is,  for  the  moment, 
almost  unbounded. 

"I  hope  you  find  yourself  a  little  better," 
said  John,  struggling  to  speak  as  tliough  he 
were  not  utterly  crushed  by  the  occasion. 

Lady  Demolines  slowly  raised  herself  from 
her  knees,  helping  herself  with  her  hands  against 
the  shoulder  of  the  sofa — for  though  still  very 
clever,  she  was  old  and  still' — and  then  offered 
both  her  hands  to  Johnny.  Johnny  cautiously 
took  one  of  them,  finding  himself  unable  to  de- 
cline them  both.  "My  son  1"  she  exclaimed  ; 
and  before  he  knew  where  he  was  the  old  wo- 
man hud  succeeded  in  kissing  his  nose  and  his 
whiskers.      "  My  son !"  siie  said  again. 

Now  the  time  had  come  for  facing  the  drag- 
on and  the  tigress  in  their  wrath.  If  they 
were  to  be  faced  at  all,  the  time  for  facing  them 
liad  certainly  arrived.  I  fear  that  John's  heart 
sank  low  in  his  bosom  at  that  moment.  "  I 
don't  quite  understand,"  he  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper.  Madalina  put  out  one  arm  toward 
him,  and  the  fingers  trembled.  Iler  lips  were 
opened,  and  the  white  row  of  interior  ivory  might 
be  seen  plainly ;  but  at  the  present  conjuncture  of 
affairs  she  spoke  not  a  word.  She  spoke  not  a 
word ;  but  her  arm  remained  stretched  out  to- 
ward him,  and  her  fingers  did  not  cease  to  trem- 
ble. 

"  You  do  not  understand  !"  said  Lady  Demo- 
lines, drawing  herself  back,  and  looking,  in  her 
short  0]X!ra-cloak,  like  a  knight  who  has  donned 
his  cuirass,  but  has  forgotten  to  put  on  his  leg- 
gear.  And  she  shook  the  bright  ribbons  of  her 
cap,  as  a  knight  in  his  wrath  shakes  the  crest 
of  his  helmet.  "You  do  not  understand,  Mr. 
Eames?  What  is  it,  Sir,  that  you  do  not  un- 
derstand?" 

"  There  is  some  misconception,  I  mean," 
said  Johnny. 

"  Mother!"  said  Madalina,  turning  her  eyes 
from  her  recreant  lover  to  her  tender  parent ; 
trembling  all  over,  but  still  keeping  her  hand 
extended.      "  Mother !" 

"  My  darling !  But  leave  him  to  me,  dearest. 
Compose  yourself." 

"  'Twas  the  word  that  he  said — this  moment ; 
before  he  pressed  me  to  his  heart." 

"  I  thought  you  were  fainting,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Sir !"  And  Lady  Demolines,  as  she  spoke, 
shook  her  crest  and  glared  at  him,  and  almost 
flew  at  him  in  her  armor. 

"It  may  be  that  nature  has  given  way  with 
me,  and  tliat  I  have  been  in  a  dream,"  said 
Madalina. 

"  That  which  mine  eyes  saAV  was  no  dream," 
said  Lady  Demolines.  "  Mr.  Eames,  I  havci 
given  to  you  the  sweetest  name  that  can  falB 
from  an  old  woman's  lips.  I  have  called  you 
my  son." 

"Yes,  you  did,  I  know.  But,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, there  is  some  mistake.  I  know  how  proud 
I  ought  to  bo,  and  how  happy,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing.     But — "     Then  there  came  a  screech 


from  Madalina,  which  would  have  awakened  the 
dead  had  tliere  been  any  dead  in  that  house. 
The  page  and  the  cook,  however,  took  no  notice 
of  it,  whether  they  were  awakened  or  not.  And 
having  screeched,  Madalina  stood  erect  upon  the 
floor,  and  she  also  glared  upon  her  recreant  lover. 
The  dragon  and  the  tiger  were  there  before  him 
now,  and  he  knew  that  it  behooved  him  to  look 
to  himself.  As  he  had  a  battle  to  fight,  might 
it  not  be  best  to  put  a  bold  face  upon  it ?  "The 
truth  is," said  he,  "that  I  don't  understand  this 
kind  of  thing  at  all." 

"Not  understand  it.  Sir?"  said  the  dragon. 

"Leave  him  to  me,  mother,"  said  the  tigress, 
shaking  her  head  again,  but  with  a  kind  of 
shake  diflering  from  that  which  she  had  used 
before.  "This  is  my  business,  and  I'll  have  it 
out  for  myself.  If  he  thinks  I'm  going  to  put 
up  with  his  nonsense  he's  mistaken.  I've  been 
straightforward  and  above  board  with  you,  Mr. 
Eames,  and  I  expect  to  be  treated  in  the  same 
w.ay  in  return.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  my  mother 
tliat  you  deny  that  we  are  engaged?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  do.  I'm  very  sorry,  you 
know,  if  I  seem  to  be  uncivil — " 

"  It's  because  I've  no  brother,"  said  the  tigress. 
"  He  thinks  that  I  have  no  man  near  me  to  pro- 
tect me.  But  he  shall  find  that  I  can  protect 
myself.  John  Eames,  why  are  you  treating  me 
like  this?" 

"  I  shall  consult  my  cousin,  the  sergeant,  to- , 
morrow," said  the  dragon.  "In  the  mean  time 
he  must  remain  in  this  house.  I  shall  not  allow 
the  front  door  to  be  unlocked  for  him." 

This,  I  think,  was  the  bitterest  moment  of 
all  to  Johnny.  To  be  confined  all  night  in  Lady 
Demolines's  drawing-room  would  of  itself  be  an 
intolerable  nuisance.  And  then  the  absurdity 
of  the  thing,  and  the  story  that  would  go  abroad  I 
And  what  should  he  say  to  the  dragon's  cousin, 
the  sergeant,  if  the  sergeant  should  be  brought 
upon  the  field  before  he  was  able  to  escape  from 
it?  He  did  not  know  what  a  sergeant  might  not 
do  to  him  in  such  circumstances.  There  was 
one  thing  no  sergeant  should  do,  and  no  dragon ! 
Between  them  all  they  should  never  force  him 
to  marr}'  the  tigress.  At  this  moment  Johnny 
heard  a  tramp  along  the  pavement,  and  he 
rushed  to  the  window.  Before  the  dragon  or 
even  the  tigress  could  arrest  him  he  had  thrown 
up  the  sash,  and  had  appealed  in  his  difficulty 
to  the  guardian  of  the  night.  "I  say,  old  fel- 
low," said  Johnny,  "don't  you  stir  from  that 
till  I  tell  you."  The  policeman  turned  his  bidl's- 
eye  upon  the  window,  and  stood  perfectly  mo- 
tionless. "Now,  if  you  please,  I'll  say  good- 
night," said  Johnny.  But  as  he  spoke  he  still 
held  the  open  window  in  his  hand. 

"What  means  this  violence  in  my  house?" 
said  the  dragon. 

"  Mamma,  you  had  better  let  him  go,"  said  the 
tigress.      "  We  shall  know  where  to  find  him." 

"  You  will  certainly  be  able  to  find  me,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Go,"  said  the  dragon,  shaking  her  crest — 
shaking  all  her  armor  at  him,  "dastard,  go!" 


350 


THE  LAST  CHKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"Policeman,"  shouted  Johnny,  while  he  still 
held  tlie  open  window  in  his  hand,  "mind  yon 
don't  stir  till  I  conic  out."  Tlic  bull's-eye  was 
shifted  a,  little,  but  the  policeman  spoke  never  a 
word. 

"I  wish  you  good-night.  Lady  Demolines," 
said  Johnny.  "  Good-night,  Miss  Demolines." 
Tlien  he  left  the  window  and  made  a  run  for 
the  door.  But  tho  dragon  was  there  before 
him. 

"Let  him  go,  mamma,"  said  tho  tigress,  as 
slie  closed  the  window.  ' '  We  shall  only  have 
a  rumpus." 

"That  will  be  all,"  said  Julinny.  "There 
isn't  the  slightest  use  in  your  trying  to  keep  me 
lierc." 

"And  are  we  never  to  sec  you  again?"  said 
the  tigress,  almost  languishing  again  with  one 
eye. 

"Well,  no.  Wliat  would  he  the  use?  No 
man  likes  to  be  shut  in,  you  know." 

"Go,  then,"  said  the  tigress;  "but  if  you 
think  tliat  this  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  you'll  find 
yourself  wonderfully  mistaken.  You  poor,  false, 
driveling  creature  !  Lily  Dale  won't  touch  you 
with  a  pair  of  tongs.  It's  no  use  your  going  to 
her." 

"  Go  away,  Sir,  this  moment,  and  don't  con- 
taminate ray  room  an  instant  longer  by  your 
jM'csence,"  said  the  dragon,  who  had  observed 
tlirough  the  window  that  tlie  bull's-eye  was  still 
in  full  force  before  the  liouse.  Then  John 
Eamcs  withdrew,  and  descending  into  the  hall 
made  his  way  in  the  dark  to  the  front  door.  For 
aught  he  knew  there  might  still  be  treachery  in 
regard  to  the  lock  ;  but  his  heart  was  comforted 
as  he  heard  the  footfall  of  the  policeman  on  the 
door-step.  With  much  fumbling  he  succeeded 
at  last  in  turning  the  key  and  drawing  the  bolt, 
and  then  he  found  himself  at  liberty  in  the  street. 
Before  he  even  spoke  a  word  to  the  policeman 
he  went  out  into  the  road  and  looked  up  at  tho 
window.  He  could  just  see  the  figure  of  tlic 
dragon's  helmet  as  she  was  closing  the  shutters. 
It  was  the  last  he  ever  saw  of  Lady  Demolines 
or  of  her  daughter. 

"What  was  it  all  about?"  said  the  police- 
man. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  just  tell  you,"  said 
Johnny,  searching  in  his  pocket-book  for  half 
a  sovereign,  which  he  tendered  to  the  man. 
"There  was  a  little  difficulty,  and  I'm  obliged 
to  you  for  waiting." 

"  There  ain't  nothing  wrong?"  said  the  man, 
suspiciously,  hesitating  for  a  moment  before  he 
accepted  the  coin. 

"  Nothing  on  earth.  I'll  wait  with  you  while 
you  have  the  house  opened  and  inquire,  if  you 
wisii  it.  The  truth  is,  somebody  inside  refused 
to  have  the  door  opened,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
stay  there  all  night." 

"They're  a  rummy  couple,  if  what  I  hear  is 
true." 

"They  are  a  rummy  couple,"  said  Johnny. 
"  I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  said  the  policeman, 
taking  tho  money.     And  then  John  walked  oft' 


home  by  himself,  turning  in  his  mind  all  the 
circumstances  of  liis  connection  with  Miss  Dem- 
olines. Taking  his  own  conduct  as  a  whole,  he 
was  rather  proud  of  it;  but  he  acknowledged 
to  himself  that  it  would  be  well  that  he  should 
kcej)  liimself  free  from  the  society  of  Madalinas 
for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  LXXXI, 

n  ARC  HESTER     CLOISTERS. 

On  tlie  morning  of  the  Sunday  after  the  dean's 
return  Mr.  Harding  was  lying  in  his  bed,  and 
Posy  was  sitting  on  the  bed  beside  him.  It  was 
manifest  to  all  now  that  he  became  feebler  and 
feebler  from  day  to  day,  and  that  he  would  never 
leave  his  bed  again.  Even  the  archdeacon  had 
shaken  his  head,  and  had  acknowledged  to  his 
wife  that  the  last  day  for  lier  father  was  near  at 
hand.  It  would  very  soon  be  necessary  that  he 
should  select  another  vicar  for  St.  Ewold's. 

"Grandpa  won't  ])lay  cat's-cradle,"  said  Posy, 
as  ]\Irs.  Arabin  entered  the  room. 

"No,  darling  —  not  this  morning,"  said  the 
old  man.  He  himself  knew  well  enough  that 
he  would  never  play  cat's-cradle  again.  Even 
that  was  over  for  him  now. 

"  She  teases  you,  pajia,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"No  indeed,"  said  he.  "Posy  never  teases 
me;"  and  he  slowly  moved  his  withered  hand 
down  outside  the  bed,  so  as  to  hold  the  child  by 
her  frock.      "Let  her  stay  with  me,  my  dear." 

"Dr.  Filgrave  is  down  stairs,  papa.  You 
will  see  him,  if  he  comes  up?"  Now  Dr.  Fil- 
grave was  the  leading  physician  of  Barchester, 
and  nobody  of  note  in  the  city — or  for  the  mat- 
ter of  that  in  tlie  eastern  division  of  the  county 
— was  allowed  to  start  upon  the  last  great  jour- 
ney without  some  assistance  from  Jiim  as  the 
hour  of  going  drew  nigh.  I  do  not  know  that 
he  had  much  reputation  for  prolonging  life,  but 
he  was  supposed  to  add  a  grace  to  the  hour  of 
departure.  Mr.  Harding  had  expressed  no  wish 
to  see  the  doctor — had  rather  declared  his  con- 
viction that  Dr.  Filgrave  could  be  of  no  possible 
service  to  him.  But  he  was  not  a  man  to  per- 
severe in  his  objection  in  opposition  to  the  wishes 
of  the  friends  around  him ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
archdeacon  had  spoken  a  word  on  the  subject  he 
assented. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear,  I  will  see  him." 

"And  Posy  shall  come  back  when  he  has 
gone,"  said  Mrs.  Arabin. 

"Posy  will  do  me  more  good  than  Dr.  Fil- 
grave, I  am  quite  sure ;  but  Posy  shall  go  now." 
So  Posy  scrambled  off  the  bed,  and  the  doctor 
was  ushered  into  the  room. 

"A  day  or  two  will  see  the  end  of  it,  Mr. 
Archdeacon — I  should  say  a  day  or  two,"  said 
the  doctor,  as  he  met  Dr.  Grantly  in  the  hall. 
"  I  should  say  that  a  day  or  two  would  see  the 
end  of  it.  Indeed  I  will  not  undertake  that 
twenty-four  hours  may  not  see  the  close  of  his 
earthly  troubles.  He  has  no  suffering,  no  pain, 
no  disturbing  cause.     Nature  simply  retires  to 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


35. 


rest."  Dr.  Filgrave,  as  he  said  this,  made  a 
dow  falling  motion  with  his  hands,  which  alone 
on  various  occasions  had  been  tiiought  to  be 
wortli  all  the  money  i)aid  for  his  attendance. 
"Perhaps  yon  would  wish  that  I  should  step  in 
in  the  evening,  Mr.  Dean?  As  it  happens,  I 
shall  be  at  liberty."  The  dean  of  course  said 
that  he  would  take  it  as  an  additional  favor. 
Neither  the  dean  nor  the  archdeacon  had  the 
slightest  belief  in  Dr.  Filgrave,  and  yet  they 
would  hardly  have  been  contented  tliat  tlieir  fa- 
tlier-in-law  should  have  departed  without  him. 

"Look  at  that  man,  now,"  said  tlic  archdea- 
con, when  the  doctor  had  gone,  "who  talks  so 
glibly  about  nature  going  to  rest.  I've  known 
him  all  my  life.  He's  an  older  man  by  some 
.  months  than  our  dear  old  friend  up  stairs.  And 
he  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  attend  death- 
beds in  Barchester  forever." 

"I  suppose  he  is  right  in  what  he  tells  us 
now?"  said  the  dean. 

"  No  doubt  he  is  ;  but  my  belief  doesn't  come 
.  from  his  saying  it."  Then  tliere  was  a  pause 
as  the  two  church  dignitaries  sat  together,  do- 
ing nothing,  feeling  that  the  solemnity  of  tiie 
moment  was  such  that  it  would  be  hardly  be- 
coming that  they  should  even  attempt  to  read. 
"  His  going  will  make  an  old  man  of  me,"  said 
the  archdeacon.    "It  will  be  ditferent  u  ith  you." 

"It  will  make  an  old  woman  of  Eleanor,  I 
fear." 

"I  seem  to  have  known  him  all  my  life," 
said  the  archdeacon.  "  I  have  known  him  ever 
since  I  left  college;  and  I  have  known  him  as 
one  man  seldom  knows  another.  There  is  no- 
thing that  he  has  done — as  I  believe,  nothing 
tliat  he  has  thought — with  which  I  have  not 
been  cognizant.  I  feel  sure  that  he  never  had 
an  impure  fancy  in  his  mind,  or  a  faulty  wish 
in  his  heart.  His  tenderness  has  surpassed  the 
tenderness  of  woman  ;  and  yet,  when  an  occa- 
sion came  for  showing  it,  he  had  all  the  spirit 
of  a  hero.  I  shall  never  forget  his  resignation 
of  tlie  hospital,  and  all  that  I  did  and  said  to 
make  him  keep  it." 

"But  he  was  right?" 

"  As  Septimus  Harding  he  was,  I  think, 
right;  but  it  would  have  been  wrong  in  any 
other  man.  And  he  was  right,  too,  about  the 
deanery."  For  promotion  had  once  come  in 
My.  Harding's  way,  and  he,  too,  miglit  have 
been  Dean  of  Barchester.  "The  fact  is,  he 
never  was  wrong.  He  couldn't  go  wrong.  He 
lacked  guile,  and  he  feared  God  :  and  a  man 
who  docs  both  will  never  go  far  astray.  I  don't 
tiiink  he  ever  coveted  aught  in  his  life — ex- 
cept a  new  case  for  his  violoncello  and  some- 
body to  listen  to  him  when  he  played  it." 
Then  tlie  archdeacon  got  up,  and  walked  about 
the  room  in  his  enthusiasm ;  and  perhaps  as  he 
walked  some  thoughts  as  to  the  sterner  ambi- 
tion of  his  own  life  passed  through  his  mind. 
What  things  had  he  coveted?  Had  he  lack- 
ed guile  ?  He  told  himself  that  he  had  feared 
God ;  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he  was  telling 
himself  true  even  in  that. 


During  the  whole  of  the  morning  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin  and  Mrs.  Grantly  were  with  their  father, 
and  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day  there  was 
absolute  silence  in  the  room.  He  seemed  to 
sleep  ;  and  tliey,  though  they  knew  tliat  in  truth 
he  was  not  slcejiing,  feared  to  disturb  him  by  a 
word.  About  two  Mrs.  Baxter  brought  him  his 
dinner,  and  he  did  rouse  himself,  and  swallowed 
a  spoonful  or  two  of  soup  and  half  a  glass  of 
wine.  At  this  time  Posy  came  to  him,  and 
stood  at  the  bedside,  looking  at  him  with  her 
great  wide  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  aware  that 
life  had  now  gone  so  far  with  her  dear  old  friend 
that  she  must  not  be  allowed  to  sit  u])on  his  bed 
again.  But  he  jnit  his  hand  out  to  her,  and 
she  held  it,  standing  quite  still  and  silent. 
When  !Mrs.  Baxter  came  to  take  away  the  tra}' 
Posy's  mother  got  u])  and  whispered  a  word  to 
the  child.  Then  Posy  went  away,  and  her  eyes 
never  beheld  the  old  man  again.  That  was  a 
day  which  Posy  will  never  furget — not  though 
she  should  live  to  be  much  older  than  her  grand- 
father was  when  she  thus  left  him. 

"It  is  so  sweet  to  have  you  both  here,"  he 
said,  when  he  had  been  lying  silent  for  nearly 
an  hour  after  the  child  had  gone.  Then  they 
got  up,  and  came  and  stood  close  to  him.  "Tliere 
is  nothing  left  for  me  to  wish,  my  dears — no- 
thing." Not  long  after  that  he  expressed  a  de- 
sire that  the  two  husbands — his  two  sons-in-law 
— should  come  to  him  ;  and  Mrs.  Arabin  went 
to  them,  and  brought  them  to  the  room.  As  he 
took  their  hands  he  merely  repeated  the  same 
words  again.  "Tliere  is  nothing  left  for  me 
to  wish,  my  dears — nothing."  He  never  spoke 
again  above  his  breath ;  but  ever  and  anon  his 
daughters,  who  watched  him,  could  see  that  he 
was  praying.  The  two  men  did  not  stay  with 
him  long,  but  returned  to  the  gloom  ot  the  li- 
brary. The  gloom  had  almost  become  the  dark- 
ness of  night,  and  they  were  still  sitting  there 
without  any  light,  when  Mrs.  Baxter  entered 
the  room.  "The  dear  old  gentleman  is  no  more," 
said  Mrs.  Baxter :  and  it  seemed  to  the  arch- 
deacon that  the  very  moment  of  Iiis  father's  death 
had  repeated  itself.  When  Dr.  Filgrave  called 
he  was  told  that  his  services  could  be  of  no  fur- 
ther use.  "Dear,  dear  1"  said  the  doctor.  "We 
are  all  dust,  Mrs.  Baxter;  are  we  not?"  There 
were  peojile  in  Barchester  who  pretended  to 
know  how  often  the  doctor  had  repeated  this  lit- 
tle formula  during  the  last  thirty  years. 

There  was  no  violence  of  sorrow  in  the  house 
that  night;  but  there  were  aching  hearts,  and 
one  heart  so  sore  that  it  seemed  that  no  cure  for 
its  anguish  could  ever  reach  it.  "He  has  al- 
ways been  with  me,"  Mrs.  Arabin  said  to  her 
husband,  as  he  strove  to  console  her.  "It  was 
not  that  I  loved  him  better  than  Susan,  but  I 
have  felt  so  much  more  of  his  loving  tenderness. 
The  sweetness  of  his  voice  has  been  in  my  ears 
almost  daily  since  I  was  born." 

They  buried  him  in  the  cathedral  which  he 
had  loved  so  well,  and  in  which  nearly  all  the 
work  of  his  life  had  been  done  ;  and  all  Barches- 
ter was  there  to  see  hini  laid  in  his  grave  within 


352 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAllSET. 


tlic  cloisters.  There  was  no  procession  of 
coaches,  no  hearse,  nor  was  there  any  attempt 
at  funereal  pomp.  From  the  dean's  side-door, 
across  the  vaulted  jiassage,  and  into  the  tran- 
sept— over  the  little  step  ujjon  which  he  had 
so  nearly  fallen  wlien  hist  he  made  his  way  out 
of  the  building' — the  coftin  was  carried  on  men's 
shoulders.  It  was  but  a  sliort  journey  from  his 
bedroom  to  his  }j;rave.  I3ut  the  bell  bad  been 
tollinj;  sadly  all  the  morning;,  and  the  nave  and 
the  aisles  and  the  transepts,  close  up  to  the  door 
leading  from  the  transci)t  into  the  cloister,  were 
crowded  with  those  who  had  known  the  name 
and  the  figure  and  the  voice  of  Mr.  Harding  as 
long  as  they  had  known  any  thing.  I'p  to  tliis 
ilay  no  one  would  iiavc  .«aid  specially  tliat  l\Ir. 
Harding  was  a  favorite  in  the  town.  He  had 
never  been  forward  enough  in  any  thing  to  be- 
come the  acknowledged  possessor  of  popularity. 
But,  now  that  he  was  gone,  men  and  women 
told  each  otlier  how  good  he  had  been.  Tliey 
remembered  the  sweetness  of  his  smile,  and 
talked  of  loving  little  words  which  he  had 
spoken  to  them — either  years  ago  or  the  other 
day,  for  his  words  had  always  been  loving. 
The  dean  and  the  archdeacon  came  first,  shoul- 
der to  shoulder,  and  after  them  came  their  wives. 
I  di)  not  know  that  it  was  the  projjcr  order  for 
mourning,  but  it  was  a  touching  sight  to  be  seen, 
and  was  long  remembered  in  Barchester.  I'ain- 
ful  as  it  was  for  them,  the  two  women  would  be 
there,  and  tlie  two  sisters  would  walk  together 
— nor  would  they  go  before  their  husbands. 
Then  there  were  the  archdeacon's  two  sons- — for 
the  Rev.  Cliarles  Grantly  had  come  to  Plum- 
stead  on  the  occasion.  And  in  the  vaulted  pas- 
sage which  runs  between  tlie  deanery  and  the 
end  of  the  transept  all  the  chapter,  witli  the 
choir,  the  prebendaries,  with  the  fat  old  clian- 
cellor,  the  precentor,  and  the  minor  canons 
down  to  the  little  choristers — they  all  were  there, 
and  followed  in  at  the  transejit  door,  two  by 
two.  And  in  the  transept  they  were  joined  by 
another  clergyman  whom  no  one  had  expected 
to  see  tliat  day.  The  bishop  was  there,  looking 
old  and  worn — almost  as  thougli  he  were  un- 
conscious of  what  he  was  doing.  Since  his 
wife's  death  no  one  had  seen  him  out  of  the  pal- 
ace or  of  the  palace  grounds  till  that  day.  But 
there  he  was;  and  they  made  way  for  him  into 
the  procession  behind  the  two  ladies ;  and  the 
archdeacon,  when  lie  saw  it,  resolved  that  there 
should  be  peace  in  his  heart,  if  peace  might  be 
possible. 

They  made  their  way  into  the  cloisters  where 
the  grave  had  been  dug — as  many  as  might  be 
allowed  to  follow.  The  jdace  indeed  was  open 
to  all  who  chose  to  come ;  but  they  who  had 
only  slightly  known  the  man  refrained  from 
pressing  ujjon  tliose  who  had  a  right  to  stand 
around  his  coffin.  But  there  was  one  other 
there  whom  the  faithful  chronicler  of  Barchester 
slicnild  mention.  Before  any  other  one  had 
reached  the  spot  the  sexton  and  the  verger  be- 
tween them  had  led  in  between  them,  among 
the  graves  beneath  the  cloisters,  a  blind  man, 


very  old,  with  a  wondrous  stoop,  but  who  must 
have  owned  a  grand  statwre  before  extreme  old 
age  liad  bent  him,  and  they  placed  him  sitting 
on  a  stone  in  the  corner  of  the  archway.  But 
as  soon  as  tlie  shuffling  of  steps  reached  his  ears 
he  raised  liimself  witli  tlic  aid  of  his  stick,  and 
stood  during  the  service  leaning  against  the  pil- 
lar. The  blind  man  was  so  old  that  he  might 
almost  have  been  Mr.  Harding's  father.  This 
was  John  Bunco,  a  bedesman  from  Hiram's  Hos- 
pital ;  and  none  perhajjs  there  had  known  Mr. 
Harding  better  than  he  had  known  him.  When 
the  earth  had  been  thrown  on  to  the  coffin,  and 
tlic  service  was  over,  and  they  were  about  to 
disperse,  Mrs.  Arabin  went  up  to  the  old  man, 
and  taking  his  hand  between  hers  whis])ercd  a 
word  into  his  ear.  "Oh,  Miss  Eleanor!"  he 
said.  "Oh,  Miss  Eleanor!"  Within  a  fort- 
night he  also  was  lying  within  the  cathedral  pre- 
cincts. 

,  And  so  they  buried  Mr.  Septimus  Harding, 
formerly  Warden  of  Hiram's  Hosjutal  in  tlic  city 
of  Barchester,  of  whom  the  chronicler  may  say 
that  that  city  never  knew  a  sweeter  gemlenian 
or  a  better  Christian. 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

THE    LAST   SCENE   AT   HOGGLESTOCK. 

TiiK  fortnight  following  Mr.  Harding's  death 
was  ]iassed  very  quietly  at  Hogglestoek,  for  dur- 
ing that  time  no  visitor  made  an  appearance  in 
the  parish  except  Mr.  Snapper  on  the  Sundays. 
Mr.  Snapper,  when  he  had  completed  the  serv- 
ice on  the  first  of  these  Sundays,  intimated  to 
Mr.  Crawley  his  opinion  that  probably  that  gen- 
tleman might  himself  wish  to  resume  the  duties 
on  the  following  Sabbath.  Mr.  Crawley,  how- 
ever, courteously  declined  to  do  any  thing  of  tiie 
kind.  He  said  that  it  was  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion that  he  should  do  so  without  a  direct  com- 
munication made  to  him  from  the  bishop,  or 
by  the  bishop's  order.  The  assizes  had,  of 
.course,  gone  by,  and  all  question  of  the  trial 
was  over.  Nevertlieless — as  Mr.  Snaji])er  said 
— the  bishop  had  not,  as  yet,  given  any  order. 
Mr.  Snapper  was  of  ojiinion  that  the  bishoj) 
in  these  days  was  not  quite  himself.  He  had 
spoken  to  the  bishop  about  it,  and  the  bishop 
had  told  him,  peevislily — "I  must  say  quite 
peevislily,"  Mr.  Snnpper  had  said — that  nothing 
was  to  be  done  at  jiresent.  Mr.  Snapjier  was 
not  the  less  clearly  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Crawley 
might  resume  his  duties.  To  this,  however, 
Mr.  Crawley  would  not  assent. 

But  even  during  the  fortniglit  Mr.  Crawley 
liad  not  remained  altogether  neglected.  Two 
days  after  Mr.  Harding's  death  he  had  received 
a  note  from  the  dean,  in  which  he  was  advised 
not  to  resume  the  duties  at  Hogglestoek  for  the 
present.  "  Of  course  you  can  understand  that 
we  have  a  sad  house  here  at  present,"  the  dean 
had  said.  "But  as  soon  as  ever  we  are  able  to 
move  in  the  matter  we  will  arrange  things  for 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


353 


you  ns  comfortabl}'  as  we  can.  I  will  see  the 
bishop  myself."  Mr.  Crawley  had  no  ambitious 
idea  of  any  comfort  which  might  accrue  to  him 
beyond  that  of  an  honorable  return  to  his  hum- 
ble preferment  at  nogglestock :  but  neverthe- 
less he  was  in  tiiis  case  minded  to  do  as  the 
dean  counseled  him.  He  had  submitted  him- 
self to  the  bisho)),  and  he  would  wait  till  the 
bishop  absolved  him  from  his  submission. 

On  the  day  after  the  funeral  the  bishop  had 
sent  his  compliments  to  the  dean,  with  the  ex- 
pression of  a  wish  that  the  dean  would  call  upon 
him  on  any  early  day  that  might  be  convenient 
with  reference  to  the  position  of  Mr.  Crawley 
of  Hogglestock.  The  note  was  in  the  bishop's 
own  handwriting,  and  was  as  mild  and  civil  as. 
a  bishop's  note  could  be.  Of  course  the  dean 
named  au  early  day  for  the  interview ;  but  it 
was  necessary  before  he  went  to  the  bishop  that 
he  should  discuss  the  matter  with  the  archdea- 
con. If  St.  Ewold's  might  be  given  to  Mr.  Craw- 
ley the  Hogglestock  difficulties  would  all  be? 
brought  to  an  end.  The  archdeacon,  after  the 
funeral,  had  returned  to  Plumstead,  and  thither 
the  dean  went  to  him  before  he  saw  the  bish- 
op. He  did  succeed — he  and  Mrs.  Grantly  be- 
tween them — but  with  very  great  difficulty,  In 
obtaining  a  conditional  promise.  They  had 
both  thought  that  when  the  archdeacon  became 
fully  aware  that  Grace  was  to  be  his  daughter- 
in-law  he  would  at  once  have  been  delighted 
to  have  an  opportunity  of  extricating  from  his 
poverty  a  clergyman  with  whom  it  was  his  fate 
to  be  so  closely  connected.  But  he  fought  the 
matter  on  twenty  diit'erent  points.  He  declared 
at  first  that,  as  it  was  his  primary  duty  to  give 
to  the  people  of  St.  Ewold's  the  best  clergyman 
he  could  select  for  them,  he  could  not  give  the 
preferment  to  Mr.  Crawley,  because  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, in  spite  of  all  his  zeal  and  piety,  was  a  man 
so  quaint  in  his  manners  and  so  eccentric  in  his 
mode  of  speech  as  not  to  be  the  best  clergyman 
whom  he  could  select.  "  What  is  my  old  friend 
Thorne  to  do  with  a  man  in  his  parish  who 
won't  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him?"  For 
Ullathorne,  tlie  seat  of  tliat  Mr.  Wilfred  Thorne 
who  had  been  so  guilty  in  the  matter  of  the  foxes, 
was  situated  in  the  parish  of  St.  Ewold's.  When 
Mrs.  Grantly  proposed  that  Mr.  Thome's  consent 
should  be  asked  the  archdeacon  became  very 
angry.  He  had  never  heard  so  unecclesiastical 
a  proposition  in  his  life.  It  was  his  special  duty 
to  do  the  best  he  could  for  Mr.  Thorne,  but  it 
was  specially  his  duty  to  do  so  without  consult- 
ing Mr.  Thorne  about  it.  As  the  archdeacon's 
objection  had  been  argued  simply  on  the  point  of 
the  glass  of  wine,  both  the  dean  and  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly thought  that  he  was  unreasonable.  But  they 
had  their  point  to  gain,  and  tlierefore  they  only 
flattered  him.  They  were  sure  tliat  Mr.  Thorne 
would  like  to  have  a  clergyman  in  the  parish 
who  would  himself  be  closely  connected  with 
the  archdeacon.  Then  Dr.  Grantly  alleged 
that  he  might  find  himself  in  a  trap.  What  if 
he  conferred  the  living  of  St.  Ewold's  on  Mr. 
Crawley,  and  after  all  there  should  be  no  mar- 


riage between  his  son  and  Grace  ?"  "  Of  course 
they'll  be  married,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "It's 
all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that,  my  dear ;  but 
the  whole  family  are  so  queer  that  there  is  no 
knowing  what  the  girl  may  do.  She  nuiy  take 
up  some  other  f\id  now,  and  refuse  him  point- 
blank."  "She  has  never  taken  up  any  fad," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly,  who  now  mounted  almost  to 
wrath  in  defense  of  her  future  daughter-in-law, 
"  and  you  are  wrong  to  say  that  she  has.  She 
has  beliaved  beautifully — as  nobody  knows  bet- 
ter than  you  do."  Then  the  archdeacon  gave 
way  so  far  as  to  promise  that  St.  Ewold's  should 
be  offered  to  Mr.  Crawley  as  soon  as  Grace 
Crawley  was  in  truth  engaged  to  Harry  Grantly. 

After  that  the  dean  went  to  the  palace.  There 
had  never  been  any  quarreling  between  the  bish- 
op and  the  dean,  cither  direct  or  indirect ;  nor, 
indeed,  had  the  dean  ever  quarreled  even  with 
Mrs.  Proudie.  But  he  had  belonged  to  the 
anti-Proudie  fiiction.  He  had  been  brought  into 
the  diocese  by  the  Grantly  interest ;  and  tliere- 
fore, during  Mrs.  Proudie's  lifetime,  he  had  al- 
ways been  accounted  among  the  enemies.  Tiiere 
had  never  been  any  real  intimacy  between  the 
houses.  Each  house  had  been  always  asked  to 
dine  with  the  other  house  once  a  year;  but  it 
had  been  understood  that  such  dinings  were  ec- 
clesiastico-official,  and  not  friendly.  There  had 
been  the  same  outside  diocesan  civility  between 
even  the  palace  and  Plumstead.  But  now, 
when  the  great  chieftain  of  the  palace  was  no 
more,  and  the  strength  of  the  palace  faction 
was  gone,  peace,  or  perhaps  something  more 
than  peace  —  amity,  perhaps,  might  be  more 
easily  arranged  with  the  dean  than  witii  the 
archdeacon.  In  prejiaration  for  such  arrange- 
ments the  bishop  had  gone  to  Mr.  Harding's 
funeral. 

And  now  the  dean  went  to  the  palace  at  the 
bishop's  behest.  He  found  his  lordsliip  alone, 
and  was  received  with  almost  reverential  courte- 
sy. He  thought  that  the  bishop  was  looking 
wonderfully  aged  since  he  last  saw  him,  but  did 
not  perhaps  take  into  account  the  absence  of 
clerical  sleekness  which  was  incidental  to  the 
bishop's  private  life  in  his  private  room,  and 
perhaps  in  a  certain  measure  to  his  recent  great 
affliction.  The  dean  had  been  in  the  hiibit  of 
regarding  Dr.  Proudie  as  a  man  almost  young 
for  his  age,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
him  at  his  best,  clothed  in  authority,  redolent 
of  the  throne,  conspicuous  as  regarded  his  apron 
and  outward  signs  of  episeopality.  Much  of  all 
this  was  now  absent.  The  bishop,  as  he  rose 
to  greet  the  dean,  shuffled  with  his  old  sli])pers, 
and  his  hair  was  not  brushed  so  becomingly  as 
used  to  be  the  case  when  jMrs.  Proudie  was  al- 
ways near  him. 

It  was  necessary  that  a  word  should  be  said 
by  each  as  to  the  loss  which  the  other  had  suf- 
fered. "Mr.  Dean,"  said  his  lordship,  "allow 
me  to  offer  you  my  condolements  in  regard  to  the 
death  of  that  very  excellent  clergyman  and  most 
worthy  gentleman,  your  father-in-law." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord.     He  was  excellent 


854 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


and  worthy.  1  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  live 
to  sec  any  man  who  was  more  so.  You  also 
have  a  great — a  terrible  loss." 

'•Oh,  Mr.  Dean,  yes;  yes  indeed,  Mr.  Dean. 
That  was  a  loss." 

"  And  hardly  past  the  prime  of  life !" 

"Ah,  yes — just  lifty-si.x  —  and  so  strong! 
Was  she  not  ?  At  least  every  hody  tliouglit  so. 
And  yet  slio  was  gone  in  a  minute — gone  in  a 
minute.  I  haven't  held  up  my  head  since,  Mr. 
Dean.' 

"  It  was  a  great  loss,  my  lord  ;  but  you  must 
struggle  to  bear  it." 

"I  do  struggle.  I  am  struggling.  But  it 
makes  one  ft-el  so  lonely  in  this  great  house. 
Ah  me!  I  often  wish,  I\Ir.  Dean,  tiuit  it  had,' 
])li'ascd  Providence  to  have  left  me  in  some  hum* 
i)le  ]iar.sonage,  wliere  duty  would  have  been 
easier  than  it  is  here.  But  I  will  not  trouble 
you  with  all  that.  What  are  we  to  do,  Mr. 
Dean,  about  this  poor  Mr.  Crawley  ?" 

"Mr.  Crawley  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine, 
and  a  very  dear  friend." 

"Ls  he?  Ah!  A  very  worthy  man,  I  am 
sure,  and  one  who  has  been  much  tried  by  un- 
deserved adversities." 

"Most  severely  tried,  my  lord." 

"  Sitting  among  the  jjotsherds,  like  Job  ;  has 
he  not,  Mr.  Dean  ?  Well ;  let  us  hope  that  all 
that  is  over.  When  this  accusation  about  the 
robbery  was  brought  against  him  I  found  my- 
self bound  to  interfere." 

"  He  has  no  complaint  to  make  on  that  score." 

"I  hoi)e  not.  I  have  not  wished  to  be  harsh, 
but  wliat  could  I  do,  Mr.  Dean  ?  They  told  me 
that  the  civil  authorities  found  the  evidence  so 
strttng  against  him  that  it  could  not  be  witli- 

Stoiul." 

"  It  was  very  strong." 

"  And  we  thouglit  that  he  should  at  least  be 
relieved,  and  we  sent  for  Dr.  Tempest,  who  is 
his  rural  dean."  Then  the  bishop,  remembering 
all  tlie  circumstances  of  that  interview  with  Dr. 
Teiiiiiest — as  to  which  he  had  ever  felt  assured 
that  one  of  the  results  of  it  was  tlie  death  of  his 
wife,  whereby  there  was  no  longer  any  "we" 
left  in  tlie  palace  of  Barchester — sighed  piteous- 
ly,  looking  up  at  the  dean  witii  hopeless  face. 

"Nobody  doubts,  my  lord,  that  you  acted  for 
the  best." 

"  I  hope  we  did.  I  think  we  did.  And  now 
what  shall  we  do?  He  has  resigned  his  living, 
both  to  you  and  to  me,  as  I  hear — you  being  the 
patron.  It  will  simply  be  necessary,  I  think, 
that  he  sliould  ask  to  iiave  the  letters  canceled. 
Tlien,  as  I  take  it,  there  need  be  no  reinstitution. 
You  can  not  think,  Mr.  Dean,  how  much  I  have 
thought  about  it  all." 

Then  the  dean  unfolded  his  budget,  and  ex- 
plained to  the  bishop  how  he  hoped  that  the 
living  of  St.  Ewold's,  which  was,  after  some  ec- 
clesiastical fashion,  attached  to  the  rectory  of 
Plumstead,  and  which  was  now  vacant  by  the 
demise  of  Mr.  Harding,  might  be  conferred  by 
the  archdeacon  upon  Mr.  Crawley  It  was 
necessary  to  explain  also  that  this  could  not  be 


done  quite  immediately,  and  in  doing  this  the 
dean  encountered  some  little  difficulty.  The 
archdeacon,  he  said,  wished  to  be  allowed  an- 
other week  to  think  about  it ;  and  therefore 
perha])S  provision  for  the  duties  at  Hogglestock 
might  yet  be  made  for  a  few  Sundays.  The 
bishop,  the  dean  said,  might  easily  understand 
that,  after  what  had  occurred,  Mr.  Crawley 
would  hardly  wish  to  go  again  into  that  puli)it, 
unless  he  did  so  as  resuming  duties  which  would 
necessarily  be  permanent  with  him.  To  all 
this  the  bisho])  assented,  but  he  was  apj)areiUly 
struck  with  much  wonder  at  the  choice  made  by 
the  archdeacon.  "  I  should  have  thought,  Mr. 
Dean,"  he  said,  "  that  Air.  Crawley  was  the  last 
man  to  have  suited  the  archdeacon's  choice." 

"The  archdeacon  and  I  married  sisters,  my 
lord." 

"  Oh,  ah  !  yes.  And  he  puts  the  nomination 
of  St.  Ewold's  at  your  disposition.  I  am  sure  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  institute  so  worthy  a  gen- 
tleman as  Mr.  Crawley."  Then  the  dean  took 
his  leave  of  the  bishop — as  will  Me  also.  Boor 
dear  bishoj) !  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  ho 
was  right  in  his  regrets  as  to  the  little  parsonage. 
Not  that  his  failure  at  Barchester,  and  his  pres- 
ent consciousness  of  lonely  incom])etenee,  were 
mainly  due  to  any  ]josit)ve  inefficiency  on  his 
own  ])art.  He  might  have  been  a  sufficiently 
good  bishop  had  it  not  been  that  Mrs.  I'roudie 
was  so  much  more  than  asufficiently  good  bishop's 
wife.  We  will  now  say  farewell  to  him,  with  a 
hope  that  the  lopped  tree  may  yet  become  green 
again,  and  to  some  extent  fruitful,  although  all 
its  beautiful  head  and  richness  of  waving  foli- 
age have  been  taken  from  it. 

About  a  week  after  tliis  Henry  Grantly  rode 
over  from  Cosby  Lodge  to  Hogglestock.  It  has 
been  just  said  that  though  the  assizes  had  pass- 
ed by,  and  though  all  question  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
guilt  was  now  set  aside,  no  visitor  had  of  late 
made  his  way  over  to  Hogglestock.  I  fancy 
that  Grace  Crawley  forgot,  in  the  fullness  of  her 
memory  as  to  other  things,  that  Mr.  Harding, 
of  whose  death  she  heard,  had  been  her  lover's 
grandfather — and  that  therefore  there  might 
possibly  be  some  delay.  Had  there  been  much 
said  between  the  mother  and  the  daughter  about 
the  lover  no  doubt  all  this  would  have  been  ex- 
plained ;  but  Grace  was  vei-y  reticent,  and  there 
were  other  matters  in  the  Hogglestock  house- 
hold which  in  those  days  occupied  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley's mind.  How  were  they  again  to  begin  life  ? 
for,  in  very  truth,  life  as  it  had  existed  with 
them  before,  had  been  brought  to  an  end.  But 
Grace  remembered  well  the  sort  of  compact 
which  existed  between  her  and  her  lover — the 
compact  which  had  been  made  in  very  words 
between  herself  and  her  lover's  father  Com- 
plete in  her  estimataon  as  had  been  the  heaven 
opened  to  her  by  Henry  Grantly's  offer,  she  had 
refused  it  all — lest  she  should  bring  disgrace 
upon  him.  But  the  disgrace  was  not  certain  ; 
and  if  her  father  should  be  made  free  from  it, 
tiien — then — tlien  Henry  Grantly  ought  to  come 
to  her  and  be  at  her  feet  with  all  the  expedition 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BAKSET. 


355 


possible  to  him.  That  was  her  reading  of  the 
compact.  She  had  once  dechired,  wlicn  speak- 
ing of  the  possible  disgrace  whicli  miglit  attach 
itself  to  her  family  and  to  Iier  name,  tluit  her 
poverty  did  not  "  signify  a  bit."  She  was  not 
ashamed  of  her  father — only  of  the  accusation 
against  her  father.  Therefore  slie  had  hurried 
home  when  that  accusation  was  withdrawn,  de- 
sirous that  her  lover  should  tell  her  of  his  love 
— if  ho  chose  to  rcj)eat  such  telling — amidst  all 
the  poor  things  of  Hogglestock,  and  not  among 
tlie  cliairs  and  tables  and  good  dinners  of  lux- 
urious Framlcy.  Mrs.  Kobarts  had  given  a  true 
interpretation  to  Lady  Lufton  of  the  haste  which 
Grace  liad  displayed.  But  she  need  not  have 
been  in  so  great  a  hurry.  She  had  been  at 
home  already  above  a  fortnight,  and  as  yet  he 
had  made  no  sign.  At  last  slie  said  a  word  to 
her  mother.  "  Might  I  not  ask  to  go  back  to 
Miss  Prettyman's  now,  mamma?"  "I  tliink, 
dear,  you  had  better  wait  till  things  are  a  little 
settled.  Papa  is  to  hear  again  from  the  dean 
very  soon.  You  see  they  are  all  in  a  great  sor- 
row at  Barchester  about  poor  Mr.  Harding's 
death."  "  Grace  \"  said  Jane,  rushing  into  the 
liouse  almost  speechless  at  that  moment,  "here 
he  is — on  horseback."  I  do  not  know  wliy 
Jane  should  have  talked  about  j\L)jor  Grantly 
as  simply  "he."  There  hat!  been  no  conver- 
sation among  the  sifters  to  justify  her  in  such  a 
mode  of  speech.  Grace  had  not  a  moment  to 
put  two  and  two  togetlier,  so  that  she  might 
realize  the  meaning  of  what  her  mother  had 
said;  but  nevertheless  she  felt  at  the  moment 
that  the  man,  coming  as  he  hnd  done  now,  Iiad 
come  with  iiU  commendable  s))eed.  How  fool- 
ish had  she  been  with  her  wretched  impatience  ! 

There  he  was  certainly,  tying  his  horse  up  to 
the  railing.  "Mamma,  what  am  I  to  say  to 
liim  ?" 

"Nay,  dear;  he  is  your  own  friend — of  your 
own  making.    You  must  sa\' what  you  think  fit." 

"  You  arc  not  going?" 

"I  think  we  liad  better,  dear."  Then  she 
went,  and  Jane  with  her,  and  Jane  opened  the 
door  for  Major  Grantly.  Mr.  Crawley  iiimself 
was  away,  at  Hoggle  End,  and  did  not  return 
till  after  Major  Grantly  liad  left  the  parsonage. 
Jane,  as  she  greeted  the  grand  gentleman,  whom 
she  had  seen  and  no  more  tlian  seen,  hardly 
knew  what  to  say  to  him.  ^Vilen,  after  a  min- 
ute's hesitation,  she  told  him  that  Grace  was  in 
there — pointing  to  the  sitting-room  door,  she 
felt  that  she  had  been  very  awkward.  Henry 
Grantly,  however,  did  not,  I  think,  feel  her 
awkwardness,  being  conscious  of  some  small  dif- 
ficulties of  his  own.  When,  however,  he  found 
that  Grace  was  alone,  the  task  before  him  at 
once  lost  half  its  difficulties.  "  Grace,"  he  said, 
"  am  I  right  to  come  to  you  now  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said.     "  I  can  not  tell." 

"  Dearest  Grace,  there  is  no  reason  on  earth 
now  why  you  should  not  be  my  wife." 

"Is  tliere  not?" 

"  I  know  of  none — if  you  can  love  me.  You 
saw  my  fatlier  ?" 


"Yes,  I  saw  him." 

"And  you  heard  what  he  said?" 

"I  hardly  remember  what  he  said;  but  he 
kissed  me,  and  I  thouglit  he  was  very  kind." 

What  little  attempt  Henry  Grantly  tlicn  made, 
thinking  that  he  could  not  do  better  than  follow 
closely  the  examj)le  of  so  excellent  a  father,  need 
not  be  explained  witii  minuteness.  But  I  tiiink 
that  his  first  eilbrt  was  not  successful.  Grace 
was  embarrassed  and  retreated,  and  it  was  not 
till  she  had  been  compelled  to  give  a  direct  an- 
swer to  a  direct  question  that  she  submitted  to 
allow  his  arm  round  her  waist.  But  when  she 
had  answered  tliat  question  she  was  almost  more 
iiumble  tlian  becomes  a  maiden  who  has  just 
been  wooed  and  won.  A  maiden  who  has  been 
wooed  and  won  generally  tbinks  that  it  is  she 
who  has  conquered,  and  chooses  to  be  triumph- 
ant accordmgly.  But  Grace  was  even  mean 
enough  to  thank  her  lover.  "I  do  not  know 
why  you  should  be  so  good  to  me,"  she  said. 

"Because  I  love  you,"  said  he,  "better  than 
all  the  world." 

"But  why  should  you  be  so  good  to  me  as 
that?  Why  should  you  love  me?  I  am  such 
a  poor  thing  for  a  man  like  you  to  love." 

"  I  have  had  the  wit  to  see  that  yoii  are  not  a 
poor  thing,  Grace;  and  it  is  thus  that  I  have 
earned  my  treasure.  Some  girls  are  poor  things 
and  some  are  rich  treasures." 

"  If  love  can  make  me  a  treasure  I  will  be  your 
treasure.  And  if  love  can  make  me  rich  I  will 
be  rich  for  you."  After  that  I  think  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  following  in  his  father's  footsteps. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Crawley  came  in,  and  tlicre 
was  mucli  pleasant  talking  among  them,  while 
Henry  Grantly  sat  happily  ^ith  his  k^ve,  as 
though  waiting  fur  Mr.  Crawley's  return.  But 
though  he  was  there  nearly  all  the  morning  Mr. 
Crawley  did  not  return.  "  I  think  he  likes  the 
brickmakers  better  than  any  body  in  all  the 
world,  except  ourselves," said  Grace.  " I  don't 
know  how  he  will  manage  to  get  on  without  his 
friends."  Before  Grace  had  said  this  Major 
Grantly  had  told  all  his  story,  and  had  produced 
a  letter  from  his  father,  addressed  to  Mr.  Craw- 
ley, of  which  the  reader  shall  have  a  copy,  al- 
though at  this  time  the  letter  had  not  been  open- 
ed.    The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"Plcmsteat)  Reotoey,  — Mav,  ISO-. 
"My  dear  Sir, — You  will  no  doubt  have 
heard  that  Mr.  Harding,  the  vicar  of  St.  Ewold's, 
who  was  the  fothcr  of  my  wife  and  of  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin,  has  been  taken  from  us.  The  loss  to  us 
of  so  excellent  and  so  dear  a  man  has  been  very 
great.  I  iiave  conferred  with  my  friend  the 
Dean  of  Barchester  as  to  a  new  nomination,  and 
I  venture  to  request  your  acceptance  of  the  pre- 
ferment, if  it  should  suit  you  to  move  from  Hog- 
glestock to  St.  Ewold's.  It  may  be  as  well  tliat 
I  should  state  plainly  my  reasons  for  making 
this  oft'er  to  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  am  not 
personally  acquainted.  Mr.  Harding,  on  his 
death-bed,  himself  suggested  it.  moved  thereto 
by  what  he  had  heard  of  the  cruel  and  unde- 


356 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


served  persecution  to  which  you  have  lately  hcen 
subjected ;  as  also — on  wliicii  point  lie  was  very 
urgent  in  what  he  said — by  tlic  cliaracter  wliicli 
you  bear  in  the  diocese  for  zeal  and  piety.  I 
may  also  add,  that  the  close  connection  -which, 
as  I  understand,  is  likely  to  take  place  between 
vour  family  and  mine  has  been  an  additional 
reason  for  my  takinfj  this  step,  and  the  loufjj 
friendsliip  whicli  has  existed  between  yon  and 
mv  wife's  brother-in-law^,  the  Dean  uf  13arches- 
ter,  is  a  third. 

St.  Ewold's  is  worth  £^')0  per  annum,  be- 


sides the  house,  which  is  siiniciently  commodious  fly.      "St.  Ewold's  isn't  the  best  house  in  the 


for  a  moderate  family.  The  jtopulation  is  alwut 
twelve  hundred,  of  which  more  than  a  half  con- 
sists of  persons  dwelling  in  an  outskirt  of  the 
city — for  tiie  ]iarish  runs  almost  into  Barchestcr. 

"I  shall  be  <;lad  to  have  yf)iir  reply  witli  as 
little  delay  as  may  suit  your  convenience,  and 
in  the  event  of  your  accepting  the  ot^er — which 
I  sincerely  trust  you  may  be  enabled  to  do — I 
shall  hope  to  have  an  early  opportunity  of  seeing 
you  with  reference  to  your  institution  to  the 
parish. 

"Allow  me  also  to  say  to  you  and  to  Mrs. 
Crawley  that,  if  we  have  been  correctly  informed 
as  to  that  other  event  to  wliich  I  have  alluded,  we 
both  hope  that  we  may  have  an  early  opportunity 
of  making  ourselves  personally  acquainted  witli 
the  parents  of  a  young  lady  who  is  to  be  so  dear 
to  us.  As  I  have  met  your  daughter,  I  may 
pcrhajis  be  allowed  to  send  her  my  kindest  love. 
If,  as  my  daughter-in-law,  she  comes  up  to  the 
impression  which  she  gave  me  at  our  first  meet- 
ing, I,  at  any  rate,  shall  be  satisfied. 

"I  have  tlie  honor  to  be,  my  dear  Sir, 
"Your  most  faithful  servant, 

"  TlIEOrillLUS    GlJANTLY." 

Tills  letter  the  arclideacon  had  show^n  to  his 
wif'!,  by  whom  it  had  not  been  very  warmly  ap- 
proved. Nothing,  Mrs.  Grantiy  had  said,  could 
be  prettier  than  what  tlie  archdeacon  had  said 
about  Grace.  Mrs.  Crawley,  no  doubt,  would 
be  satisfied  with  that.  But  Mr.  Crawley  was 
such  a  strange  man!  "lie  will  be  stranger 
than  I  take  him  to  be  if  he  does  not  accept  St. 
Ewold's,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  But  in  offer- 
ing it,"  said  Mrs.  Grantiy,  "you  have  not  said 
a  word  of  your  own  high  opinion  of  his  merits." 
"I  have  not  a  very  high  opinion  of  them,"  said 
the  archdeacon.  "  Your  father  had,  and  I  have 
said  so.  And  as  I  have  the  most  profound  re- 
spect for  your  father's  opinion  in  such  a  matter 
I  have  permitted  that  to  overcome  my  own  hesi- 
tation." This  was  pretty  from  the  husband  to 
the  wife  as  it  regarded  her  fatlier,  wlio  had  now 
gone  from  them  ;  and,  therefore,  Mrs.  Grantiy 
accepted  it  without  further  argument.  The 
reader  may  probably  feel  assured  tliat  the  arcli- 
deacon had  never,  during  their  joint  lives,  acted 
in  any  church  matter  upon  the  advice  given  to 
him  by  Mr.  Harding ;  and  it  was  probably  the 
case  also  that  the  living  would  have  been  offei--  i  tience  of  my  horse  has  been  surprising."  Then 
ed  to  Mr.  Crawley  if  nothing  had  been  said  by  I  Grace  walked  out  with  him  to  tlie  gate,  and  ])ut 
Mr.  Harding  on  the  subject;  but  it  did  not  be-  I  her  hand  njion  his  bridle  as  he  mounted,  and 


come  Mrs.  Grantiy  even  to  think  of  all  this. 
The  archdeacon,  having  made  his  gracious  speech 
about  her  father,  was  not  again  asked  to  alter 
his  letter.  "I  sujipose  he  will  accept  if,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantiy.  "I  should  think  that  he  proba- 
bly may,"  said  the  arclideacon. 

So  Grace,  knowing  what  was  the  purport  of 
tlie  letter,  sat  with  it  between  her  fingers,  while 
her  lover  sat  beside  her,  full  of  various  plans  for 
the  future.  This  was  his  first  lover's  ])reseiit  to 
her — and  what  a  jiresent  it  was !  Comfort,  and 
happiness,  and  a  pleasant  liome  for  all  her  fami- 


world,"  said  the  major,  "because  it  is  old,  and 
what  I  call  j)icecmeal ;  but  it  is  very  pretty, 
and  certainly  nice."  "That  is  just  the  sort  of 
parsonage  that  I  dream  about,"  said  Jane. 
"And  tlie  garden  is  pleasant  with  old  trees," 
said  the  major.  "I  always  dream  about  old 
trees,"  said  Jane,  "only  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  old 
myself  to  be  let  to  climb  up  them  now."  Mrs. 
Crawley  said  very  little,  but  sat  by  with  her 
eyes  full  of  tears.  Was  it  possible  that,  at  last, 
before  the  world  had  closed  upon  her,  she  was 
to  enjoy  something  again  of  the  comforts  which 
siic  had  known  in  her  early  years,  and  to  be 
again  surrounded  by  those  decencies  of  life  which 
of  late  had  been  almost  banished  from  her  home 
by  povert}' ! 

Tlieir  various  plans  for  the  future — for  the 
immediate  future — were  very  startling.  Grace 
was  to  go  over  at  once  to  riumstead,  whither 
Edith  had  been  already  transferred  from  Cosby 
Lotlge.  That  was  all  very  well ;  there  was  no- 
thing very  startling  or  impracticable  in  that. 
The  Framley  ladies,  having  none  of  those 
doubts  as  to  what  was  coming  which  had  for  a 
wliile  peri)lexcd  Grace  herself,  had  taken  little 
lilierties  with  her  wardrobe,  which  enabled  such 
a  visit  to  be  made  without  overwhelming  difii- 
culties.  But  tlie  major  was  equally  eager — or 
at  any  rate  equally  iinjierious — in  his  requisi- 
tion for  a  visit  fiom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley 
themselves  to  Plumstead  rectory.  ]\Irs.  Craw- 
ley did  not  dare  to  put  forward  the  plain  un- 
adorned reasons  against  it,  as  Mr.  Crawley  had 
done  when  discussing  the  subject  of  a  visit  to 
the  deanery.  Nor  could  she  quite  venture  to 
explain  that  she  feared  tliat  the  archdeacon  and 
her  husband  Avotild  hardly  mix  well  together 
in  society.  With  whom,  indeed,  was  it  ]iossible 
that  her  husband  sliould  mix  well  after  his  long 
and  hardly-tried  seclusion?  She  could  only 
plead  that  both  her  husband  and  herself  were 
so  little  used  to  going  out  that  she  feared — she 
feared — she  feared  she  knew  not  what.  "  We'll 
get  over  all  that,"  said  the  major,  almost  con- 
temptuously. "  It  is  only  the  first  plunge  that  is 
disagreeable."  Perhaps  the  major  did  not  know 
how  very  disagreeable  a  first  ])lunge  may  be! 

At  two  o'clock  Henry  Grantiy  got  up  to  go. 
"  I  should  very  much  like  to  have  seen  him,  liut 
I  fear  I  can  not  wait  longer.     As  it  is,  the  pa- 


THE  LAST  CIIKONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


357 


thought  how  wonderful  was  the  jiower  of  For- 
tune that  the  goddess  sliould  liave  sent  so  gal- 
Lmt  a  gentleman  to  he  her  lord  and  her  lover. 
"  I  declare  I  don't  quite  believe  it  even  yet,"  slic 
said  in  tlie  letter  which  she  wrote  to  Lily  Dale 
that  night. 

It  was  tour  before  Mr.  Crawley  returned  to 
his  liouse,  and  then  he  was  very  weary.  Tlicre 
were  many  sick  in  these  days  at  Iloggle  End, 
and  he  had  gone  from  cottage  to  cottage  througli 
tlie  day.  Giles  Darvell  was  ahnost  unable  to 
work  from  rlieumatism,  but  still  was  of  opinion 
that  doggedness  might  carry  him  on.  "It's 
been  a  deal  o'  service  to  you.  Muster  Crawley," 
he  said.  "  "We  hears  about  it  all.  If  you  hadn't 
a  been  dogged,  where'd  you  a  been  now  ?"  With 
Giles  Darvell  and  others  he  had  remained  all  the 
day,  and  now  he  came  home  weary  and  beaten. 
"You'll  tell  him  first,"  Grace  had  said,  "and 
then  I'll  give  him  the  letter."  The  wife  was 
the  first  to  tell  him  of  the  good  fortune  that  was 
coming. 

He  flung  himself  into  the  old  chair  as  soon  as 
he  entered,  and  asked  for  some  bread  and  tea. 
"Jane  has  already  gone  for  it,  dear,"  said  his 
wife.      "We  have  had  a  visitor  here,  Josiah." 
"A  visitor — what  visitor?" 
"  Grace's  own  friend — Henry  Grantly." 
"Grace,  come  here,  that  I  may  kiss  you  and 
bless  you,"  he  said,  very  solemnly.      "  It  would 
seem  that  the  world  is  going  to  be  very  good  to 
you." 

"Papa,  you  must  read  this  letter  first." 
"  Before  I  kiss  my  own  darling  ?"  Then  she 
knelt  at  his  feet.  "I  see,"  he  said,  taking  the 
letter ;  "  it  is  from  your  lover's  father.  Perad- 
venture  he  signifies  his  consent,  wliich  would  be 
surely  needful  before  such  a  marriage  would  be 
seemly." 

"  It  isn't  about  me,  papa,  at  all." 
"  Not  iibout  you  ?  If  so,  that  would  be  most 
nnpromising.  But,  in  any  case,  you  are  my 
best  darling."  Then  he  kissed  her  and  blessed 
her,  and  slowly  opened  the  letter.  His  wife  had 
now  come  close  to  him,  and  was  standing  over 
him,  touching  him,  so  that  she  also  could  read 
the  archdeacon's  letter.  Grace,  who  was  still 
in  front  of  him,  could  see  the  working  of  his 
face  as  he  read  it ;  but  even  she  could  not  tell 
whether  he  was  gratified,  or  oftended,  or  dis- 
mayed. When  he  had  got  as  far  as  the  first 
offer  of  the  presentation  he  ceased  reading  for 
a  while,  and  looked  round  about  the  room  as 
though  lost  in  thought.  "Let  me  see  wliat 
further  he  writes  to  me,"  he  then  said  ;  and  aft- 
er that  he  continued  the  letter  slowly  to  the  end. 
"Nay,  my  child,  you  Mere  in  error  in  saying 
that  he  wrote  not  about  you.  'Tis  in  writing  of 
you  he  has  put  some  real  heart  into  his  words. 
He  writes  as  though  his  home  would  be  welcome 
to  you." 

"And  does  he  not  make  St.  Ewold's  welcome 
to  j'ou,  papa?" 

"He  makes  me  welcome  to  accept  it — if  I 
may  use  the  word  after  the  ordinary  and  some- 
what faulty  parlance  of  mankind." 


"And  you  will  accept  it,  of  course?" 

"  I  know  not  that,  my  dear.  The  acceptance 
of  a  cure  of  souls  is  a  thing  not  to  be  decided  on 
in  a  moment — as  is  the  color  of  a  garment  or 
the  shape  of  a  toy.  Nor  wouhl  I  condescend  to 
take  this  thing  from  the  archdeacon's  hands  if 
I  thouglit  tluit  lie  bestowed  it  simply  that  the 
fatlicr  of  his  daughter-in-law  might  no  longer  be 
accounted  poor." 

"Does  he  say  that,  papa?" 

"  He  gives  it  as  a  collateral  reason,  basing  his 
offer  first  on  the  kindly  expressed  judgment  of 
one  who  is  now  no  more.  Then  he  refers  to  the 
friendship  of  the  dean.  If  he  believed  that  the 
judgment  of  his  late  father-in-law  in  so  weighty 
a  matter  were  the  best  to  be  relied  upon  of  all 
that  were  at  his  command,  then  he  would  have 
done  well  to  trust  to  it.  But  in  such  case  he 
should  have  bolstered  up  a  good  ground  for  ac- 
tion with  no  collateral  supports  which  are  weak 
— and  worse  than  weak.  However,  it  shall  have 
my  best  consideration,  whereunto  I  hope  that 
wisdom  will  be  given  me  where  only  such  wis- 
dom can  be  had." 

"Josiah,"  said  his  wife  to  him  when  they 
were  alone,  "you  will  not  refuse  it?" 

"Not  willingly — not  if  it  may  be  accepted. 
Alas!  you  need  not  urge  me,  when  the  tempta- 
tion is  so  strong!" 


CHAPTER  LXXXIII. 

MR.    CKAWLEY    IS    CONQUERED. 

It  was  more  than  a  week  before  the  archdea- 
con received  a  reply  from  Mr.  Crawley,  during 
which  time  the  dean  had  been  over  at  Hoggle- 
stock  more  than  once,  as  had  also  Mrs.  Arabin 
and  Lady  Lufton  the  younger — and  there  had 
been  letters  written  without  end,  and  the  arch- 
deacon had  been  nearly  beside  himself.  "A 
man  wlio  pretends  to  conscientious  scruples  of 
that  kind  is  not  fit  to  have  a  parish,"  he  had 
said  to  his  wife.  His  wife  understood  what  he 
meant,  and  I  trust  that  the  reader  may  also  un- 
derstand it.  In  the  ordinary  cutting  of  blocks 
a  very  fine  razor  is  not  an  appropriate  instru- 
ment. The  archdeacon,  moreover,  loved  the 
temporalities  of  the  Ciiurch  as  temporalities. 
The  Church  was  beautiful  to  him  because  one 
man  by  interest  might  have  a  thousand  a  year, 
while  another  man  equally  good,  but  without 
interest,  coukl  only  have  a  hundred.  And  he 
liked  the  men  who  had  the  interest  a  great  deal 
better  than  the  men  who  had  it  not.  He  had 
been  willing  to  admit  this  poor  ])erpetual  curate, 
who  had  so  long  been  kept  out  in  the  cold,  with- 
in the  pleasant  circle  which  was  Avarm  with  ec- 
clesiastical good  things,  and  the  man  hesitated 
— because  of  scruples,  as  the  dean  told  him! 
"I  always  button  up  my  pocket  when  I  hear  of 
scruples,"  the  archdeacon  said. 

But  at  last  Mr.  Crawley  condescended  to  ac- 
cept St.  Ewold's.  "Reverend  and  dear  Sir," 
he  said  in  his  letter.     "For  the  personal  bencv- 


338 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


olence  of  the  offer  made  to  me  in  your  letter  of 
the  —  instant  I  beg  to  tender  you  my  most 
grateful  thanks  ;  as  also  for  your  generous  kind- 
ness to  me  in  telling  me  of  the  high  praise  be- 
stowed upon  me  by  a  gentleman  who  is  now  no 
more — wliose  character  I  have  esteemed  and 
whose  good  oinnion  I  value.  There  is,  mctliinks, 
something  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  in  tiie  re- 
corded praise  of  the  dead.  For  the  further  in- 
stance of  tlie  friendship  of  the  Dean  of  Barches- 
ter  I  am  also  thankful. 

"  Since  the  receiptof  your  letter  I  have  doubt- 
ed much  as  to  my  fitness  for  the  work  you  have 
pi'ojjosed  to  intrust  to  me — not  from  any  feeling 
that  the  parish  of  St.  Ewold's  may  be  beyond  my 
intellectual  jiower,  but  because  the  latter  circum- 
stances of  my  life  have  been  of  a  nature  so 
strange  and  perplexing  that  they  have  left  me 
somcwliat  in  doubt  as  to  my  own  aptitude  for 
going  about  among  men  without  giving  offense 
and  becoming  a  stumbling-block. 

"  Nevcrtlieless,  reverend  and  dear  Sir,  if  after 
this  confession  on  my  part  of  a  certain  fiiulty  de- 
meanor with  which  I  know  well  that  I  am  af- 
flicted, you  arc  still  willing  to  put  tlie  parish  into 
my  hands,  I  will  accept  the  charge,  instigated 
to  do  so  by  the  advice  of  all  whom  I  have  con- 
sulted on  tlie  subject ;  and  in  thus  accepting  it 
I  hereby  pledge  myself  to  vacate  it  at  a  month's 
Avarning  should  I  be  called  upon  by  you  to  do 
so  at  any  period  within  the  next  two  years. 
Should  I  be  so  far  successful  during  those  twenty- 
four  months  as  to  have  satisfied  both  yourself  and 
myself,  I  may  then  perhaps  venture  to  regard 
the  preferment  as  my  own  in  perpetuity  for  life. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  reverend  and  dear 
Sir, 

"Your  most  humble  and  faithful  servant, 
"JosiAii  Crawley." 

* '  Pshaw !"  said  the  archdeacon,  who  professed 
that  he  did  not  at  all  like  the  letter.  "I  wonder 
what  he  would  say  if  I  sent  him  a  month's  notice 
at  next  Michaelmas?" 

"I'm  sure  he  would  go,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"The  more  fool  he,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

At  this  time  Grace  was  at  the  parsonage  in  a 
seventli  licaven  of  happiness.  The  archdeacon 
was  never  rougli  to  her,  nor  did  he  make  any  of 
his  harsh  remarks  about  her  father  in  her  pres- 
ence. Before  her  St.  Ewold's  was  spoken  of  as 
the  home  tliat  was  to  belong  to  the  Crawleys  for 
the  next  twenty  years.  Mrs.  Grantly  was  A'ery 
loving  with  her,  lavishing  upon  her  pretty  pres- 
ents and  words  that  were  jn-ettier  than  the  pres- 
ents. Grace's  life  had  hitherto  been  so  desti- 
tute of  those  prcttinesses  and  softnesses  which 
can  hardly  be  had  without  money,  though  money 
alone  will  not  purchase  tiiem,  that  it  seemed  to 
her  now  that  the  heavens  rained  graciousness 
upon  her.  It  was  not  that  the  archdeacon's 
watch,  or  her  lover's  chain,  or  Mrs.  Grantly's 
locket,  or  the  little  toy  from  Italy  which  Mrs. 
Arabin  brought  to  her  from  the  treasures  of  the 
deanery  filled  her  heart  with  undue  exultation. 
It  was  not  that  she  reveled  in  her  new  delights 


of  silver  and  gold  and  shining  gems :  but  that 
the  silver  and  gold  and  shining  gems  were  con- 
stant indications  to  her  that  things  had  changed, 
not  only  for  her,  but  for  her  father  and  mother, 
and  brother  and  sister.  She  felt  now  more  sure 
than  ever  that  she  could  not  have  enjoyed  her 
love  had  she  accepted  her  lover  while  the  dis- 
grace of  the  accusation  against  her  father  re- 
mained. But  now,  having  waited  till  that  had 
passed  away,  every  thing  was  a  new  ha])piness  to 
her. 

At  last  it  was  settled  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craw- 
Icy  were  to  come  to  Tlumstead — and  they  came. 
It  would  be  too  long  to  tell  now  how  gradually 
had  come  about  that  changed  state  of  things 
which  made  such  a  visit  possible.  Mr.  Crawley 
had  at  first  declared  that  such  a  thing  was  quite 
out  of  the  question.  If  St.  Ewold's  was  to  de- 
pend upon  it  St.  Ewold's  must  be  given  up. 
And  I  think  that  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  him  to  go  direct  from  Ilogglestock  to  Plujn- 
stead.     But  it  fell  out  after  this  wise  : 

Mr.  Harding's  curate  at  St.  Ewold's  was  nom- 
inated to  Ilogglestock,  and  the  dean  urged  upon 
his  friend  Crawley  the  expediency  of  giving  up 
the  house  as  quickly  as  he  could  do  so.  Gradu- 
ally at  this  time  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  forced 
into  a  certain  amount  of  intimacy  with  the  haunts 
of  men.  He  had  been  twice  or  thrice  at  Bar- 
chester,  and  had  lunched  with  the  dean.  He 
had  been  at  Framley  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
had  been  forced  into  some  communication  with 
old  Mr.  Thorne,  the  squire  of  his  new  parish. 
The  end  of  this  had  been  that  he  had  at  last 
consented  to  transfer  himself  and  wife  and 
daughter  to  the  deanery  for  a  fortnight.  He 
Ipd  preached  one  farewell  sermon  at  Iloggle- 
stock— not,  as  he  told  his  audience,  as  their  pas- 
tor, which  he  had  ceased  to  be  now  for  some 
two  or  three  months — but  as  their  old  and  lov- 
ing friend,  to  whom  the  use  of  his  former  pul- 
pit had  been  lent  that  he  might  express  himself 
thus  among  them  for  the  last  time.  His  sermon 
was  very  short,  and  was  preached  without  book 
or  notes — but  he  never  once  paused  for  a  word 
or  halted  in  the  string  or  rhythm  of  his  discourse. 
Tlie  dean  was  there,  and  declared  to  him  after- 
ward that  he  had  not  given  him  credit  for  such 
powers  of  utterance.  "Any  man  can  ntter  out 
of  a  full  heart,"  Crawley  had  answered.  "In 
this  trumpery  aff'air  about  myself  my  heart  is 
full.  If  we  could  only  have  our  hearts  full  in 
other  matters,  our  utterances  thereanent  would 
receive  more  attention."  To  all  of  which  the 
dean  made  no  reply. 

On  the  day  after  this  the  Crawleys  took  their 
final  departure  from  Ilogglestock,  all  the  brick- 
makers  from  Hoggle  End  having  assembled  on 
the  occasion,  with  a  purse  containing  seventeen 
pounds  seven  shillings  and  sixpence,  which  they 
insisted  on  presenting  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  as  to 
which  there  was  a  little  difficulty.  And  at  the 
deanery  they  remained  for  a  fortnight.  How 
Mrs.  Crawley,  under  the  guidance  of  Mrs.  Ara- 
bin, had  there  so  fiir  trenched  upon  the  revenues 
of  St.  Ewold's  as  to  provide  for  her  husband 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


859 


and  herself  raiment  fitting  for  the  worldly  splen- 
dor of  Plumstead  need  not  here  be  told  in  de- 
tail. Suffice  to  say,  the  laiment  was  fortlicom- 
ing,  and  Mr.  Crawley  found  himself  to  he  the 
perplexed  possessor  of  a  black  dress  coat,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  long  frock,  coming  nearly  to  his 
feet,  which  was  provided  for  his  daily  wear.' 
Touching  this  garment  there  had  been  some 
discussion  between  the  dean  and  the  new  vicar.  [ 
The  dean  had  desired  that  it  should  be  curtailed 
in  length.  The  vicar  had  remonstrated,  but 
still  with  something  of  the  weakness  of  compli- 
ance in  his  eye.  Then  tlie  dean  had  persisted. 
"  Surely  the  price  of  the  cloth  wanted  to  perfect 
the  comeliness  of  the  garment  can  not  be  much," 
said  the  vicar,  almost  woefully.  After  that  the 
dean  relented,  and  the  comeliness  of  the  coat  was 
made  perfect.  The  new  black  long  frock  I 
think  Mr.  Crawley  liked ;  but  the  dress  coat, 
with  the  suit  complete,  perplexed  him  sorely. 

With  his  new  coats,  and  sometliing,  also,  of 
new  mannei-s,  he  and  his  wife  went  over  to 
Plumstead,  leaving  Jane  at  the  deanery  with 
Mrs.  Arabin.  The  dean  also  went  to  Plum- 
stead. They  arrived  there  not  much  before 
dinner,  and  as  Grace  was  there  before  them  the 
first  moments  were  not  so  bad.  Before  Mr. 
Crawley  had  had  time  to  feel  himself  lost  in  the 
drawing-room  he  was  summoned  away  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  dinner — for  dinner,  and  for  the 
coat,  which  at  the  deanery  he  had  been  allowed 
to  leave  unworn.  "  I  would  with  all  my  heart 
that  I  might  retire  to  rest,"  he  said  to  his  wife 
when  the  ceremony  had  been  perfected. 

"  Do  not  say  so.  Go  down  and  take  your 
place  with  them,  and  sj)eak  your  mind  with 
them,  as  you  so  well  know  how.  Who  among 
them  can  do  it  so  well?" 

"  I  have  been  told,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "  that 
you  shall  take  a  cock  which  is  lord  of  the  farm- 
yard— the  cock  of  all  that  walk — and  when  you 
have  daubed  his  feathers  with  mud  he  shall  be 
thrashed  b)'  every  dunghill  coward.  I  say  not 
that  I  was  ever  the  cock  of  the  walk,  but  I  know 
that  they  have  daubed  my  feathers."  Then  he 
went  down  among  the  other  poultry  into  the 
farm-yard. 

At  dinner  he  was  very  silent,  answering, 
however,  wiih  a  sort  of  graceful  stateliness  any 
word  that  Mrs.  Grantly  addressed  to  him.  Mr. 
Thorne,  from  UUathorne,  was  there  also  to  meet 
his  new  vicar,  as  was  also  Mr.  Thome's  very  old 
sister,  JNliss  Monica  Thorne.  And  Lady  Anne 
Grantly  was  there — she  having  come  with  the 
expressed  intention  that  the  wives  of  the  two 
brothers  should  know  each  other,  but  with  a 
warmer  desire,  I  think,  of  seeing  Sir.  Crawley, 
of  whom  the  clerical  world  had  been  talking  much 
since  some  notice  of  the  accusation  against  him 
had  becothe  general.  There  were,  therefore,  ten 
or  twelve  at  the  dinner-table,  and  Mr.  Crawley  had 
not  made  one  at  such  a  board  certainly  since  his 
marriage.  All wentfairlysmooth with liimtill  the 
ladies  left  the  room ;  for  though  Lady  Anne,  who 
sat  at  his  left  hand,  had  perplexed  him  somewhat 
with  clerical  questions,  he  had  found  that  he 


was  not  called  upon  for  much  more  than  mono- 
syllabic responses.  But  in  his  heart  he  feared 
the  archdeacon,  and  he  felt  that  when  the  ladies 
were  gone  the  archdeacon  would  not  leave  him 
alone  in  his  silence. 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  closed  the  first  sub- 
ject mooted  was  that  of  the  Plumstead  fox  which 
had  been  so  basely  murdered  on  Mr.  Thome's 
ground.  Mr.  Thome  had  confessed  the  inifjui- 
ty,  had  dismissed  the  murderous  keeper,  and 
all  was  serene.  But  the  greater  on  that  account 
was  the  feasibility  of  discussing  the  question,  and 
the  archdeacon  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  it. 
Then  Mr.  Thorne  turned  to  the  new  vicar,  and 
asked  him  whether  foxes  abounded  in  Iloggle- 
stock.  Had  he  been  asked  as  to  tlie  rats  or 
the  moles  he  would  have  known  more  about  it. 

"Indeed,  Sir,  I  know  not  whether  or  no  there 
be  any  foxes  in  the  parish  of  Hogglestock.  I 
do  not  remember  me  that  I  ever  saw  one.  It 
is  an  animal  whose  habits  I  have  not  watched." 

"There  is  an  earth  at  Hoggle  Bushes,"  said 
the  major;  "and  I  never  knew  it  without  a 
litter." 

"I  think  I  know  the  domestic  whereabouts  of 
every  fox  in  Plumstead,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
with  an  ill-natured  intention  of  astonishing  Mr. 
Crawley. 

"Of  foxes  with  two  legs  our  friend  is  speak- 
ing, without  doubt,"said  the  vicarof  St.  Ewold's, 
with  an  attempt  at  grim  pleasantry. 

"  Of  them  we  have  none  at  Plumstead.  No 
— I  was  speaking  of  the  dear  old  fellow  with  the 
brush.  Pass  the  bottle,  Mr.  Crawley.  AVon't 
you  fill  your  glass  ?"  Mr.  Crawley  passed  the 
bottle,  but  would  not  fill  his  glass.  Then  the 
dean,  looking  up  slily,  saw  the  vexation  written 
in  the  archdeacon's  face.  The  parson  whom 
the  archdeacon  feared  most  of  all  parsons  was 
the  parson  who  wouldn't  fill  his  glass. 

Then  the  subject  was  changed.  "I'm  told 
that  the  bishop  has  at  last  made  his  reappearance 
on  his  throne,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"He  was  in  the  cathedral  last  Sunday,"  said 
the  dean. 

"Does  he  ever  mean  to  preach  again  ?" 

"He  never  did  preach  very  often,"  said  the 
dean. 

"A  great  deal  too  often,  from  all  that  people 
say, "  said  the  archdeacon.  "I  never  heard 
him  myself,  and  never  shall,  I  dare  say.  You 
have  heard  him,  Mr.  Crawley?" 

"I  have  never  had  that  good  fortune,  Mr. 
Archdeacon.  But  living  as  I  shall  now  do,  so 
near  to  the  city,  I  may  perhaps  be  enabled  to 
attend  the  cathedral  service  on  some  holy-day 
of  the  Church  which  may  not  require  prayers 
in  my  own  rural  parish.  I  think  that  the  clei'- 
gy  of  the  diocese  should  be  acquainted  with  the 
opinions,  and  with  the  voice,  and  with  the  very 
manner  and  words  of  their  bishop.  As  things 
are  now  done  this  is  not  possible.  I  could  wish 
that  there  were  occasions  on  which  a  bishop 
might  assemhle  his  clergy  and  preach  to  them 
sermons  adapted  to  their  use." 

"  What  do  you  call  a  bishop's  charge,  then  ?" 


300 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


"It  is  usually  in  the  primed  form  that  I  have 
received  it,"  said  INIr.  Crawley. 

"I  think  wc  have  quite  enough  of  that  kind 
of  tliinfj,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"He  is  a  man  whose  conversation  is  not 
j)leasin}?  to  nic,"  Jlr.  Crawley  said  to  his  wife 
that  nifiht. 

'■  Do  not  judge  of  him  too  (juickly,  Josiah," 
ills  wife  said.  "There  is  so  much  of  good  in 
him!  He  is  kind,  and  generous,  and  I  think 
all'ectionate.'' 

'■IJut  he  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  When  you 
and  tlio  other  ladies  had  retired  the  conversa- 
tion at  first  foil  on  the  habits  and  value  of — 
foxes.  I  have  been  informed  that  in  these  parts 
the  fox  is  greatly  prized,  as  without  a  fox  to  run 
before  the  dogs  that  scampering  over  the  country 
which  is  called  hunting,  and  which  delights  by 
the  quickness  and  perhaps  by  the  peril  of  the 
exercise,  is  not  relished  by  the  riders.  Of  the 
wisdom  or  taste  herein  displayed  by  the  hunters 
of  the  day  I  say  nothing.  But  it  seemed  to  me 
tliat  in  talking  of  foxes  Dr.  Grantly  was  master 
of  his  subject.  Thence  the  topic  glided  to  the 
duties  of  a  bishop  and  to  questions  of  preaching, 
as  to  which  Dr.  Grantly  was  not  slow  in  offer- 
ing his  opinion.  But  I  thought  that  I  would 
rather  have  heard  him  talk  about  the  foxes  for  a 
week  together."  She  said  nothing  more  to  him, 
knowing  well  how  useless  it  was  to  attempt  to 
turn  him  by  any  argument.  To  her  thinking 
the  kindness  of  the  archdeacon  to  them  person- 
ally demanded  some  indulgence  in  the  expres- 
sion, and  even  in  the  formation,  of  an  ojiinion 
respecting  his  clerical  peculiarities. 

On  the  next  day,  however,  iMr.  Crawley,  hav- 
ing been  summoned  by  the  archdeacon  into  the 
library  for  a  little  private  conversation,  found 
that  he  got  on  better  with  him.  How  tlie  areh- 
duiiion  conquered  him  may  perhaps  be  best  de- 
srril)  •  1  by  a  further  narration  of  what  Mr.  Craw- 
lev  said  to  his  wife.  "I  told  him  that  in  regard 
to  inDiicy-matters,  as  he  called  them,  I  had  no- 
thing to  say.  I  only  trusted  that  his  son  was 
aw. lie  that  my  daugliter  had  no  money,  and 
never  would  have  an}'.  'My  dear  Crawle}',' 
the  archdeacon  said — for  of  late  there  seems  to 
have  grown  up  in  the  world  a  habit  of  greater 
familiarity  than  that  which  I  think  did  prevail 
when  last  I  moved  much  among  men—'  my  dear 
Crawley,  I  have  enough  for  both.'  'I  would 
we  stood  on  more  equal  grounds,'  I  said.  Then, 
as  he  answered  me,  he  rose  from  his  chair. 
'We  stand,'  said  he,  'on  the  only  perfect  level 
on  which  such  men  can  meet  each  other.  We 
are  both  gentlemen.'  '  Sir,'  I  said,  rising  also, 
'  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  agree  with  you. 
I  could  not  have  spoken  such  words ;  but  com- 
ing from  you  who  are  rich  to  me  who  am  poor, 
they  are  honorable  to  the  one  and  comfortable 
to  the  other.' " 

"And  after  that?" 

"He  took  down  from  the  shelves  a  volume  of 
sermons  which  his  father  publisiied  many  years 
ago,  and  presented  it  to  me.  I  have  it  now 
under  my  arm.     It  hath  the  old  bishop's  man- 


1  uscript  notes,  which  I  will  study  carefully," 
And  thus  the  archdeacon  bad  hit  his  bird  on 
both  wings. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

It  now  only  remains  for  mc  to  gather  togeth- 
er a  few  loose  strings,  and  tie  them  together  in 
a  knot,  so  that  my  work  may  not  become  un- 
twisted. Early  in  July  Henry  Grantly  and 
Grace  Crawley  were  married  in  the  parish  church 
of  riumstead — a  great  improjiriety,  as  to  which 
neither  Archdeacon  Grantly  nor  Mr.  Crawley 
could  be  got  to  assent  for  a  long  time,  but  wliicli 
was  at  last  carried,  not  simply  by  a  union  of  Mrs. 
Grantly  and  Mrs.  Crawley,  nor  even  by  the  as- 
sistance of  Mrs.  Arabin,  but  by  the  strong  inter- 
vention of  old  Lady  Lufton  herself.  "  Of  course 
Miss  Crawley  ought  to  be  married  from  St.  Ew- 
old's  vicarage  ;  but 'when  the  furniture  has  only 
half  been  got  in,  how  is  it  possible?"  When 
Lady  Lufton  thus  spoke  the  archdeacon  gave 
way,  and  Mr.  Crawley  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  upon. 
Henry  Grantly  had  not  an  opinion  upon  the  mat- 
ter. He  told  his  father  that  he  expected  that 
they  would  marry  him  among  them,  and  that 
that  would  be  enough  for  him.  As  for  Grace, 
nobody  even  thought  of  asking  her ;  and  I  doubt 
whether  she  would  have  heard  any  thing  about 
the  contest  had  not  some  tidings  of  it  reached 
her  from  her  lover.  Married  they  were  at  Plum- 
stead — and  tlie  breakfast  was  given  with  all  that 
luxuriance  of  plenty  which  was  so  dear  to  the 
archdeacon's  mind.  Mr.  Crawley  was  the  of- 
ficiating priest.  With  his  hands  dropping  be- 
fore him,  folded  humbly,  he  told  the  archdeacon 
— when  that  Plumstead  question  had  been  finally 
settled  in  opposition  to  his  wishes — that  he  would 
fain  himself  perform  the  ceremony  by  which  his 
dearest  daughter  would  be  bound  to-her  marriage 
duties.  "And  who  else  should  ?"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. Mr.  Crawley  muttered  that  he  had  not 
known  how  far  his  reverend  brother  might  have 
been  willing  to  waive  his  rights.  But  the  arch- 
deacon, who  was  in  high  good-humor — having 
just  bestowed  a  little  pony  carriage  on  his  new 
daughter-in-law — only  laughed  at  him  ;  and,  if 
the  rumor  which  was  handed  about  the  families 
be  true,  the  archdeacon,  before  the  interview 
was  over,  had  poked  Mr.  Crawley  in  the  ribs. 
Mr.  Crawley  married  them  ;  but  the  archdeacon 
assisted,  and  the  dean  gave  away  the  bride. 
The  Rev.  diaries  Grantly  was  there  also;  and 
as  there  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  a  cloud  of 
curates  floating  in  the  distance,  Henry  Grantly 
was  perhaps  to  be  excused  for  declaring  to  his 
wife,  when  the  pair  had  escaped,  that  surely  no 
coujjle  had  ever  been  so  tightly  buckled  since 
marriage  had  first  become  a  Church  ceremony. 
Soon  after  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley  be- 
came quiet  at  St.  Ewold's,  and,  as  I  think,  con- 
tented. Iler  happiness  began  very  quickl}'. 
Though  she  had  been  greatly  broken  by  her  trou- 
bles, the  first  si<;ht  she  had  of  her  husband  in 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


361 


his  new  long  frock-coat  went  far  to  restore  her, 
and  while  he  was  declaring  himself  to  be  a  cock 
so  daubed  with  mud  as  to  be  incapable  of  crow- 
ing, she  was  congratulating  herself  on  seeing 
her  husband  once  more  clothed  as  became  his 
position.  And  they  were  lucky,  too,  as  regard- 
ed the  squire's  house  ;  for  Mr.  Thornc  was  old, 
and  quiet,  and  old-tashioned  ;  and  Miss  Tliornc 
was  older,  and  thougli  she  was  not  exactly  quiet, 
she  was  very  old-fashioned  indeed.  So  that 
there  grew  to  be  a  i)leasant  friendship  between 
IMiss  Thorne  and  Mrs.  Crawley. 

John  Eames,  when  last  I  heard  of  him,  was 
still  a  bachelor,  and,  as  I  think,  likely  to  remain 
so.  At  last  he  had  utterly  thrown  over  Sir 
Raffle  Buffle,  declaring  to  his  friends  that  the 
special  duties  of  private  secretaryship  were  not 
exactly  to  his  taste.  "You  get  so  sick  at  the 
thirteenth  ])rivate  note,"  he  said,  "that  you 
find  yourself  unable  to  carry  on  the  humbug  any 
farther."  But  he  did  not  leave  his  office.  "I'm 
the  head  of  a  room,  you  know,"  he  told  Lady 
Julia  De  Guest;  "  and  there's  nothing  to  trou- 
ble me — and  a  fellow,  you  know,  ought  to  have 
something  to  do."  Lady  Julia  told  him,  with 
a  great  deal  of  energy,  that  she  would  never  for- 
give him  if  he  gave  up  his  office.  After  that 
eventful  night  when  he  escaped  ignominiously 
from  the  house  of  Lady  Demolines  under  the 
pi-otection  of  a  policeman's  lantern  he  did  hear 
more  than  once  from  l'(jrci:ester  Terrace,  and 
from  allies  employed  by  the  enemy  who  was 
there  resident.  "My  cousin,  the  sergeant," 
proved  to  be  a  myth.  Johnny  found  out  all 
about  that  Sergeant  Runter,  who  was  distantly 
connected,  indeed,  with  the  late  husband  of 
Lady  Demolines,  but  had  always  persistently 
declined  to  have  any  intercourse  wliatever  with 
her  ladyship.  For  the  sergeant  was  a  rising 
man,  and  Lady  Demolines  was  not  exactly  pro- 
gressing in  the  world.  Johnny  heard  nothing 
from  the  sergeant ;  but  from  Madalina  he  got 
letter  after  letter.  In  the  first  she  asked  him 
not  to  think  too  much  of  the  little  joke  that  had 
occurred.  In  her  second  she  described  the  ve- 
hemence of  her  love.  In  her  third  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  wrath.  Iler  fourth  she  simply  in- 
vited him  to  come  and  dine  in  Porchester  Ter- 
race. Her  fifth  was  the  outpouring  of  injured 
innocence.  And  then  came  lettei's  from  an  at- 
torney. Johnny  answered  not  a  word  to  any 
of  them,  and  gradually  the  letters  were  discon- 
tinued. Within  six  months  of  the  receipt  of 
the  last  he  was  delighted  by  reading  among  the 
marriages  in  the  newsjiapers  a  notice  that  Peter 
Bangles,  Esq.,  of  the  firm  of  Burton  and  Ban- 
gles, wine  merchants,  of  Hook  Court,  had  been 
united  to  Madalina,  daughter  of  the  late  Sir 
Confucius  Demolines,  at  the  church  of  Peter 
the  IMartyr.  "Most  appropriate,"  said  Johnny, 
as  he  read  the  notice  to  Conway  Dalrymple,  who 
was  then  back  from  his  wedding  tour;  "for 
most  assuredly  there  will  be  now  another  Peter 
the  Martyr." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Conway,  who 
had   heard   something  of  JNIr.  Peter   Bangles. 


"There  are  men  who  have  strong  wills  of  their 
own,  and  strong  hands  of  their  own." 

"Poor  Madalina!"  said  Johnny.  "If  he 
does  beat  her,  I  ho]ie  he  will  do  it  tenderly.  It 
may  be  that  a  little  of  it  will  suit  her  fevered 
temperament." 

Before  the  summer  was  over  Conway  Dalrym- 
))le  had  been  married  to  Clara  Van  Siever,  and 
by  a  singular  arrangement  of  circumstances  had 
married  her  with  the  full  approval  of  old  Mrs. 
Van.  Mv.  IMussclboro — whose  name  I  hojic 
has  not  been  altogether  forgotten,  though  the 
part  played  by  him  has  been  subordinate — had 
oj>posed  Dalrymple  in  the  efforts  made  by  the 
artist  to  get  something  out  of  Broughton's  es- 
tate for  the  benefit  of  the  widow.  From  circum- 
stances of  which  Dalrymple  learned  the  particu- 
lars with  the  aid  of  an  attorney,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  certain  facts  were  willfully  kept  in  the 
dark  by  JMusselboro,  and  he  went  wjth  his  com- 
plaint to  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  declaring  that  he 
would  bring  the  whole  affair  into  court  unless 
all  the  workings  of  the  firm  were  made  clear  to 
him.  Mi's.  Van  was  very  insolent  to  liim,  and 
even  turned  him  out  of  the  house.  But  never- 
theless she  did  not  allow  Mr.  Musselboro  to  es- 
cape. Whoever  was  to  be  left  in  the  dark  she 
did  not  wish  to  be  there  herself;  and  it  began 
to  dawn  upon  her  that  her  dear  INIusselboro  was 
deceiving  her.  Then  she  sent  for  Dalrymple, 
and,  without  a  word  of  apology  for  her  former 
conduct,  put  him  upon  the  right  track.  As  he 
was  pushing  his  inquiries,  and  working  heaven 
and  earth  for  the  unfortunate  widow — as  to 
whom  he  swore  daily  that  when  this  matter  was 
settled  he  would  never  see  her  again,  so  terrible 
was  she  to  him  with  her  mock  aflection,  and  pre- 
tended hysterics,  and  false  moralities — he  was 
told  one  day  that  she  had  gone  off  with  Mr. 
Musselboro !  Mr.  Musselboro,  finding  that  this 
was  the  surest  plan  of  obtaining  for  himself  the 
little  business  in  Hook  Court,  married  the  wid- 
ow of  his  late  partner,  and  is  at  this  moment 
probably  carrying  on  a  lawsuit  with  Mrs.  Van. 
For  the  lawsuit  Conway  Dalrymple  cared  no- 
thing. When  the  quarrel  had  become  hot  be- 
tween Mrs.  Van  and  her  late  myrmidon  Clara 
fell  into  Conway's  hands  without  opposition ; 
and,  let  the  lawsuit  go  as  it  may,  there  will  be 
enough  left  of  Mrs.  Van's  money  to  make  the 
house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Conway  Dalrymple  very 
comfortable.  The  picture  of  Jael  and  Sisera 
was  stitched  up  without  any  difficulty,  and  I 
dare  say  most  of  my  readers  will  remember  it 
hanging  on  the  walls  of  the  exhibition. 

Before  I  take  my  leave  of  the  diocese  of  Bar- 
chester  forever,  which  I  purpose  to  do  in  the 
succeeding  paragraph,  I  desire  to  be  allowed  to 
say  one  word  of  apology  for  myself,  in  answer 
to  those  who  have  accused  me — always  witliout 
bitterness,  and  gener.illy  with  tenderness  —  of 
having  forgotten,  in  writing  of  clergymen,  the 
first  and  most  prominent  characteristic  of  the 
ordinary  English  clergyman's  life.  I  have  de- 
scribed many  clergymen,  they  say,  but  have 
spoken  of  them  all  as  though  their  professional 


3G2 


THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 


duties,  their  liigh  calling,  their  dally  workings 
for  the  good  of  those  around  them,  were  matters 
of  no  moment,  cither  to  me,  or,  in  my  opinion, 
to  themselves.  I  would  ])lead,  in  answer  to  tliis, 
that  my  object  has  been  to  jiaint  tlie  social  and 
not  the  jirofessional  lives  of  clergymen ;  and 
that  I  have  been  led  to  do  so,  firstly,  by  a  feel- 
ing that  as  no  men  alVect  more  strongly,  by  their 
own  character,  the  society  of  those  around  than 
do  country  clergymen,  so,  therefore,  their  social 
habits  have  been  worth  the  labor  necessary  for 
])ainting  them  ;  and,  secondly,  by  a  feeling  that 
though  I,  as  a  novelist,  may  feel  myself  entitled 
to  write  of  clergymen  out  of  tlicir  jiulpits,  as  I 
may  also  write  of  lawyers  and  doctors,  I  liavc 
no  such  liberty  to  write  of  them  in  their  pul])its. 
When  I  have  done  so,  if  I  have  done  so,  I  have 
so  far  transgressed.  There  are  those  who  have 
told  me  that  I  have  made  all  my  clergymen  bad 
and  none  good.  I  must  venture  to  hint  to  such 
judges  that  they  have  taught  their  eyes  to  love 
a  coloring  higher  than  nature  justifies.  We  are, 
most  of  ns,  ajit  to  love  Ivaphael's  ^Lidonnas  bet- 
ter than  Rembrandt's  matrons.  But,  though 
we  do  so,  we  know  that  Rembrandt's  matrons 
existed  ;  but  we  have  a  strong  belief  that  no  such 
woman  as  Ra])hael  painted  ever  did  exist.  In 
that  he  painted,  as  he  may  be  surmised  to  have 
done,  for  pious  ])urposes — at  least  for  Church 
piii'poses  —  Raphael  was  justified;  but  had  he 
jiainted  so  for  family  portraiture  he  would  have 
been  false.  Had  I  written  an  epic  about  clergy- 
men I  would  have  taken  St.  Paul  for  my  mod- 
el ;  but  describing,  as  I  have  endeavored  to  do, 
such  clergymen  as  I  sec  around  me,  I  could  not 
venture  to  be  transcendental.     For  mvsclf  I  can 


only  say  that  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  sit,  when 
allowed  to  do  so,  at  the  table  of  Archdeacon 
Grantly,  to  walk  through  the  High  Street  of 
Barchcster  arm  in  arm  with  INIr.  Robarts  of 
Framley,  and  to  stand  alone  and  shed  a  tear 
beneath  the  modest  black  stone  in  the  north 
transept  of  the  cathedral  on  which  is  inscribed 
the  name  of  Septimus  Harding. 

And  now,  if  the  reader  will  allow  me  to  seize 
him  atlectionately  by  the  arm,  we  will  together 
take  our  last  farewell  of  Barset  and  of  the  tow- 
ers of  Barchcster.  I  may  not  venture  to  say  to 
him  that,  in  this  country,  he  and  I  together 
have  wandered  often  through  the  country  lanes, 
and  have  ridden  together  over  the  too-well  wood- 
ed fields,  or  have  stood  together  in  the  cathedral 
nave  listening  to  the  peals  of  tlie  organ,  or  have 
together  sat  at  good  men's  tables,  or  have  con- 
fronted together  the  angry  pride  of  men  who 
were  not  good.  I  may  not  boast  that  any  be- 
side myself  have  so  realized  the  place,  and  tiic 
people,  and  the  facts,  as  to  make  such  reminis- 
cences possible  as  those  which  I  should  attempt 
to  evoke  by  an  appeal  to  perfect  fellowship.  But 
to  me  Barset  has  been  a  real  county,  and  its  city 
a  real  city,  and  the  spires  and  towers  have  been 
before  my  eyes,  and  the  voices  of  the  peojde  are 
known  to  my  ears,  and  the  pavement  of  the  city 
ways  are  familiar  to  my  footsteps.  To  them  all 
I  now  say  farewell.  That  I  have  been  induced 
to  wander  among  them  too  long  by  my  love  of 
old  friendships,  and  by  the  sweetness  of  old  faces, 
is  a  fiiult  for  which  I  may  perhaps  be  more  read- 
ily forgiven  when  I  repeat,  with  some  solemnity 
of  assurance,  the  promise  made  in  my  title,  that 
this  shall  be  the  lust  chronicle  of  Barset. 


THE  END. 


JUNE   BOOK-LIST. 

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Causes  and  Movements  of  "  The  Thirty  Years'  War."  By  John  Lothrop  Motley,  D.C.L., 
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takes  to  his  arms,  the  priest  to  whom  he  confesses  his 
secrets,  the  statesman  who  forwards,  as  he  fancies,  his 
royal  intentions.  These  are  the  real  rulers  of  mankind, 
and  their  influence  is  still  unshaken.  It  was  para- 
mount in  the  Europe  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  the  Euroi)e  of  Philip  the  Second,  Henry  the 
Fourth,  Elizabeth  and  James,  and— John  of  Barnc- 
veld. Spain  had  its  Duke  of  Lerma,  France  its  Sull}', 
England  its  Cecil  and  Walsingham,  aud  the  Nether- 
lauds  their  John  of  Barncveld.  If  he  was  not  the 
greatest  man  of  his  time,  no  man  was  greater,  though 
one  was  more  fortunate  because  more  unscrupulous." 


"The  greatest  men  are  not  always  those  whom  the 
world  considers  such.  To  the  world,  which  judges 
only  by  what  it  sees,  the  greatest  are  the  most  success- 
ful. History  is  a  stage  where  he  who  is  most  applaud- 
ed is  the  best  actor.  Tliat  many  of  the  players,  gen- 
erally the  royal  ones,  are  puppets,  the  spectators  do 
not  perceive.  The  wires  by  which  they  are  moved  are 
in  unseen  hands ;  the  parts  which  they  perform  are 
prepared  by  unknown  brains.  Kings  flatter  tliem- 
selves  that  it  is  they  who  govern  their  subjects,  and 
famous  captains  that  it  is  they  who  win  battles ;  but 
they  are  mistaken.    It  is  the  favorite  whom  the  king 


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a""5 


Northern  California,  Oregon,  and  the  Sandwich  Islands.  By  Charles  Nordhoff,  Author 
of  "California:  for  Health,  Pleasure,  and  Residence,"  &c.,  &c.  Profusely  Illustrated. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50 ;  Paper,  $2  00. 


"Mr.  NordhoflT  has  here  completed  the  account 
of  our  Pacific  Coast,  begun  in  his  previous  volume, 
California:  for  Health,  Pleasure,  and  Residence. 
The  new. book  has  the  same  features  which  made 
its  predecessor  so  successful— lively  descriptions  of 
natural  scenery,  full  accounts  of  the  resources  of 
the  region  visited,  and  careful  details  for  the  use  and 
guidance  of  travelers  and  settlers. 

Mr.  Nordhoff  has  aimed  to  prepare,  in  these  two 
volumes,  a  guide-book  which  should  give  something 
niore  than  a  mere  list  of  names.    He  tells,  with  the 


how  to  sec  it,  and  the  time  as  well  as  the  money  he 
will  need  to  spend  in  his  sight-seeing.  For  the  more 
practical  settler  or  emigrant,  this  volume  has  a  great 
variety  of  useful  information  as  to  the  climate,  produc- 
tions, health,  and  state  of  society  of  the  regions  de- 
scribed. 

Mr.  Nordhoff's  first  volume  obtained  an  immediate 
aud  extraordinary  success  ;  and  the  present,  which  is 
a  companion  to  it— or,  rather,  its  sequel— completes 
the  tour  of  the  Pacific  coast,  including  the  Sandwich 
Islands',  has  the  same  merits,  and,  like  the  first,  is 


most  careful  detail,  what  the  traveler  ought  to  see,  i  very  fully  and  finely  illustrated." 


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St'hweiiifiirtli's  Heart  of  Africa. 

The  Heart  of  Africa  ;  or,  Three  Years'  Travels  and  Adventures  in  the  Unexplored  Regions 
of  the  Centre  of  Africa.  From  iS6S  to  1S71.  By  Dr.  Georg  SChweinfurth,  Trans- 
lated by  Elle.v  E.  Frewer.  With  an  Introduction  by  Winwood  Reade.  Illustrated  by 
about  130  Woodcuts  from  Drawings  made  by  the  Author,  and  with  Two  Maps.  2  vols. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $S  00. 


The  three  great  features  of  Schweiiifurth's  book  are, 
fli^t,  his  trreat  coutribiitioiis  to  the  hydrography  of 
Central  Africa;  next,  his  rediscovery  of  the  Pygmies 
—  always  thought  fabulous  when  inontioncd  in  the 
l)agps  of  Herodotus  and  the  old  iioets;  and  tliirdly, 
the  dreadful  but  useful  light  wliith  he  throws  on  the 
slave-hunting  system  and  the  work  begun  for  the 
Egyptian  government  by  Sir  Samuel  Baker.  In  re- 
gard to  the  question  of  the  Nile,  it  may  be  briefly 
stated  that  Sclnvcinfurth  crossed  the  western  water- 
shed of  tliat  river,  and  having  arrived  where  the 
Lualaba  must  come  — if  it  come  northward  at  all, 
and  not  into  the  Nyanza  — he  found  the  Welle,  the 
Keebaly,  the  Gadda,  and  all  the  streams  of  the  land 
flowing  westward,  and  probably  to  the  Shary.  Tliis 
does  not  "settle  the  Lualaba,"  but  it  proves  the  exist- 
ence of  a  6ei)arate  river  system  where  Livingstone 
and  Stanley  thought  there  might  be  found  the  con- 
tinuous cliannel  of  the  Bahr-el-Ghazal.  As  to  the 
Pygmies,  the  German  discovered  them  iu  a  little  peo- 
ple, averaging  fi)ur  feet  seven  inches  iu  height,  living 
south  of  King  Munza's  territory.  Tlicy  are  called  the 
Akka.  Besides  seeing  a  great  company  of  the  dimin- 
tuive  savages,  the  traveler  actually  obtained  one,  call- 
ed Tikkitikki,  and  brought  him  in  good  health  as 
far  as  Egypt,  where  he  sickened  and  died  from  over- 
sumptuous  food.  The  Akka  arc  a  separate  nation 
—great  hunters  and  fighters,  like  the  Bushmen  of 
South  Africa,  whom  they  greatly  resemble ;  and 
there  is  little  doubt  that  they  represent  the  aborig- 
inal human  race  of  the  continent,  while  they  seem  iu 
feature  and  habit  to  carry  humanity  some  degrees 
closer  to  the  "  missing  link."  The  Monbuttos  and  the 
Iv  iam-niaras,  among  whom  the  doctor  lived  for  a  long 
time,  are  confirmed  cannibals ;  and  one  of  the  most 
curious  points  of  the  description  is  to  show  that  this 
unpleasant  foible  is  not  incompatible  with  marked 
advance  iu  social  arts  and  manners.  For  instance, 
these  mau-eaters,  the  Niam-niams,  are  affectionate 
husbands  aud  wives,  and  will  surrender  the  most 
cherished  possession  to  buy  back  one  of  their  house- 
hold, if  captured  by  the  slave-hunters  or  by  a  hostile 
tribe.  The  Pygmies,  therefore,  exist,  as  Herodotus 
said,  though  they  are  rather  too  large  fcr  the  cranes  to 
engage.  Lastly,  the  dreadful  pictures  of  war,  rapine, 
famine,  and  speechless  misery,  the  horrible  conse- 
quences of  the  slave-trade,  must  awaken  the  con- 
science of  Europe,  which  can  not  rest  until  measures 
are  taken  to  restrain  these  wicked  men-hunters.  Al- 
together, the  journey  which  we  have  cited  is  a  most 
memorable  contribution  to  the  work  of  African  dis- 
coverj-,  and  proves  more  than  ever  what  a  rich  and 
splendid  land  it  is  which  awaits  the  life  aud  light  of 
knowledge  around  those  magnificent  sweet-water  seas 
of  the  "  Heart  of  Africa."— Lo»(fon  TdegrajtJi. 

All  persons  who  are  really  interested  in  Africa — 
and  in  the  present  day  their  name  is  legion — should 
contrive  to  devote  themselves  to  an  attentive  perusal 
of  "The  Heart  of  Africa."— /-ifcrrti-i/  World,  Loudon. 


One  of  the  remarkable  features  of  this  Interesting 
book  is  the  immense  patience  and  pluck  displayed  by 
its  author.  •  «  *  But  in  thebookitsclf  we  And  indirect 
evidence  of  a  multifarious  industry  and  energy  such  as 
few  travelers  have  before  exhibited.  *  *  *  it  may  be 
imagined  from  the  multifarious  interests  of  Dr. 
Schweinfurth  himself  how  much  interesting  matter  lie 
has  collected,  and  to  how  many  different  tastes  hia 
book  will  appeal.— />aii  Mall  GazctU;  London. 

Dr.  Schweinfurth's  work  is  a  most  valuable  con- 
tribution to  our  knowledge  of  Inner  Africa.  We  have 
here  the  matured  results  of  an  accomplished  man  of 
science,  who  combines  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  trav- 
eler with  the  power  of  conveying  to  others  the  rich 
stores  of  information  he  has  collected  and  classilied  iu 
a  very  agreeable  tunn.— Ocean  Ili/jkioays,  London. 

Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  unquestionably  taken  rank 
as  a  leading  African  explorer,  and  the  present  work 
more  than  justifies  the  position  assigned  him  by  sci- 
entific men.  Few  greater  books  of  travel  have  been 
written  in  our  day.  *  *  *  Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  also 
much  to  say  on  the  flora,  fauna,  aud  physical  aspects  of 
the  countries  through  which  he  passed  ;  and  euliveus 
his  tale  by  scores  of  drawings,  some  of  which  arc  re- 
markably lifelike  aud  artistic.  We  may  add  that,  al- 
though he  never  obtrudes  himself,  we  come  to  know 
him  by  a  thousand  unconscious  touches ;  and  we  do 
not  envy  those  who,  when  they  close  the  book,  have 
not  learned  to  admire  his  bright,  genial  nature,  min- 
gled firmness  and  courtesy,  a'ud  noble  devotion  to 
great  aims. — Globe,  Loudon. 

Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  arrived  fresh  from  the  can- 
nibals of  Moubuttoo  with  human  skulls  and  bones  al- 
most warm  from  the  saucepaus  of  the  savages.  He 
cau  eveu  describe  the  sauces  which  these  gourmands 
use  iu  their  dainty  dishes.  Such  men  as  Dr.  Schwein- 
furth will  always  have  the  regard  aud  esteem  of  all 
true  friends  of  science  ;  he  belongs  to  the  same  metal 
that  has  already  formed  a  wedge  which  will  force  open 
the  secrets  of  Inner  Africa. — Xature,  London. 

Dr.  Schweinfurth  adds  to  the  accuracy  aud  perspicac- 
ity of  the  trained  scientific  mind  a  charming  style, 
admirably  rendered  by  the  translator,  which  carries 
one  along  through  the  record  of  his  observations  and 
of  the  main  purpose  of  his  expedition — animated  by 
many-sided  intelligence,  and  information  by  whose 
extent  he  only  is  unimpressed,  and  guided  by  true 
German  thoroughness.  The  man  interests  us  as  much 
as  the  facts,  by  his  self-abnegation,  his  quiet  taking 
for  granted  of  feats  upon  which  most  travelers  would 
have  reasonably  dilated,  his  deliberate  manner  of  do- 
ing extraordinary  things,  his  calmness  iu  danger,  his 
patience  in  suffering,  aud  the  stores  of  laboriously  ac- 
quired information  on  all  sorts  of  collateral  subjects 
on  which  he  draws  when  difliculties  arise  and  opin- 
ions differ.  No  impatience,  no  anxiety  to  push  on 
aud  get  over  intervening  space  disturbs  this  equani- 
mous  traveler,  who  is  perpetually  observing  every 
thini;.— Spectator,  London. 


A  Fast  Life  on  the  Modem  Highway. 


A  Fast  Life  on  the  Modern  Highway ;  being  a  Glance  into  the  Railroad  World  from  a 
New  Point  of  View.     By  Joseph  Taylor.     Illustrated.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  50;  Paper,  $1  00. 

man  living.  He  has  written  a  lively,  entertaining 
book,  full  of  anecdote  and  sketches  of  character,  aud 
illustrated  with  many  humorous  engravings." 


"Mr.  Joseph  Taylor  has  been  for  many  years  con- 
nected with  railroads,  in  various  capacities,  and  prob- 
ably knows  more  about  life  on  the  rail  than  any  other 


Harper  6f  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


The  Christian  Pastor.    By  Dr.  Tyng. 


The  Office  and  Duty  of  a  Christian  Pastor.  By  Stephen  II.  Tyng,  D.D.,  Rector  of  St. 
George's  Church  in  the  City  of  New  Yoriv.  Tublished  at  the  request  of  the  Students  and 
Faculty  of  the  School  of  Theology  in  the  Boston  University.     i2mo,  Cloth,  §i  25. 


Direct,  plain,  and  practical,  and  illustrated  all 
tliroiigh  by  the  wealtli  of  experience  and  wisdom 
gained  in  a  busy  pastorate  extending  over  fifty  years. 
— Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

More  than  fifty  years  of  active  ministry  have  given 
this  distinguished  rector  ample  opportunity  for  wide 
observation  and  experience  in  his  calling,  and  what  he 
Bays  here  must  necessarily  be  valuable.  The  volume 
would  be  an  acceptable  addition  to  every  minister's 
library.  It  treats  of  p.astoral  duty  rather  than  pastor- 
al theology — which  gives  a  practical  turn — the  author 
dividing  his  subject  into  the  heads  of  a  pastor's 
objects,  qualifications,  instruments,  agencies,  power, 
and  attainments.— /irooiZyn  Union. 

It  is  earnest  in  thought  and  unpretending  in  style. 
—Brooklyn  Eagle. 

It  embodies  the  results  of  his  observation  and  ex- 
perience in  an  active  ministry  extending  over  a  pe- 

Trollope's  Lady  Anna. 


riod  of  more  than  half  a  century,  and  deals  with  the 
Christian  pastor  in  his  object,  his  qualifications,  his 
instruments,  his  agencies,  his  power,  and  his  attain- 
ments, simpl}',  practically,  and  with  logical  exactness. 
The  result  is  a  description  of  the  minister  of  the  Gos- 
pel in  his  two-fold  and  inseparable  offices  of  preacher 
and  pastor  both  forcible  and  complete.  Illustrations 
from  actual  occurrences  are  freely  given  to  enforce  the 
truths  exhibited.  The  words  of  direction,  warning, 
and  encouragement  are  charged  with  eloquence,  and 
with  an  earnestness  and  fervor  born  of  a  high  and 
just  conception  of  the  place  and  power  of  the  Chris- 
tian ministry.  It  is  well  that  the  venerable  author 
has  consented  to  publish  it.  The  topics  embraced 
in  it  arc  of  paramount  importance.  Never  was  there 
a  greater  amount  of  error  prevalent  regarding  them. 
Rarely  have  they  been  discussed  so  lucidly  and  prac- 
ticaUy.— Scottish- American  Journal,  New  York  City. 


Lady  Anna.     A  Novel.     By  Anthony  Trollope,  Author  of  "  The  Warden,"  "  Barchester 
Towers,"  "  Phineas  Finn,"  "  Phineas  Redux,"  "  Dr.  Thorne,"  &c.,  &c.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


Victor  Hugo's  Ninety-Three. 


Ninety-Three.    A  Novel.    By  Victor  Hugo,  Author  of  "  Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  "  Les  Mise'ra- 
bles,"  &C.    Translated  by  Frank  Lee  Benedict,    8vo,  Paper,  75  cents  ;  i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  75. 


Hugo  is  one  of  the  great  names  in  literature.  In 
"Ninety-Three"  we  have  probably  the  culmination 
of  its  author's  career  in  prose  fiction ;  certainly  we 
find  in  it  all  his  peculiar  traits,  whether  of  plot-con- 
trivance, character-drawing,  description,  style,  or 
moral  purpose. — y.  V.  Times. 

The  finest  historical  romance  yet  written  by  any 
French  author. — Philadelphia  Press. 

Reproduces  with  powerful  effect  the  scenes  of  the  Rev- 
olution, and  is  full  of  dramatic  interest. — N.  Y.  World. 

Beautiful  sayings,  true  and  noble  thoughts,  inex- 
pressibly tender  sentiments. — Pall  Mall  Budget,  Lond. 

Nowhere  else  can  there  be  found  such  graphic  and 
startling  pictures  of  the  French  Revolution. — Albany 
Evening  Journal. 

Victor  Hugo  is  a  great  thinker  as  well  as  a  great 
novelist,  and  his  fictions  ought  to  be  read,  if  only  for 
the  instruction  and  suggestion  they  contain.  Other 
novelists  are  entertaining;  he  moves  and  convinces 
or  provokes  to  opposition.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
original  of  all  the  famous  writers  of  Europe  since 
Goethe's  time. —Springfield  Bepublican. 

The  consciousness  of  a  pervading  grandeur  and 
power  in  this  work  that  allows  of  its  admission  among 
the  truly  great  dramatic  novels  of  all  languages.— 
Boston  Post. 

As  a  picture  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  the  master- 
Bpirits  of  that  awful  period,  "Ninety-Three"  unques- 
tionably stands  among  the  greatest  works  of  the  im- 
agination. It  belongs  to  that  higher  range  of  histor- 
ical fiction  which,  in  a  certain  sense,  is  more  truthful 
than  history.  The  reader  will  rise  from  its  perusal 
with  a  clearer  conception  of  the  men  and  the  events 
of  V  annce  terrible  of  the  French  Revolution,  than  if  he 
had  given  years  of  study  to  the  chronicles  of  that  pe- 
riod.— Boston  Journal. 

Second'Consin  Sarah. 


The  types  in  "Ninety-Three  "  are  many  and  grand. 
— AthenoBiim,  London. 

The  grandeur  of  the  description,  the  skillful  inven- 
tion of  situations,  the  striking  portrayal  of  passion, 
the  exquisite  delineation  of  child  life,  the  amazing 
brilliancy  of  the  language  will  make  this  creation  of 
Victor  Hugo's  take  a  higher  rank  as  a  literary  pro- 
duction than  even  his  "Notre-Dame  de  V axis."— Scot- 
tish-American Jonrnal,  New  York  City. 

"Ninety-Three  "  will  have  a  hundred  thousand  read- 
ers.—Boston  Traveller. 

The  storming  of  the  castle  is  a  grand  piece  of  de- 
scriptive writing— intense  in  its  picturesque  realism, 
and  almost  overwhelming  in  its  vividness.  The  sub- 
sequent scenes  in  which  Gauvain  appears,  especially 
after  the  capture  of  the  Marquis,  are  full  of  pathos  and 
dignity.  The  final  interview  between  him  and  Cimour- 
dain  is  exquisitely  told,  and  the  concluding  chapters 
deserve  to  rank  among  the  finest  things  that  Victor 
Hugo  has  ever  given  to  the  world.  An  interview  be- 
tween Robespierre,  Danton,  and  Marat,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  book,  is  also  a  masterpiece.  These  three 
ruling  spirits  of  the  Terror  are  superbly  drawn  and 
magnificently  individualized.  They  stand  out  mar- 
velously  real  in  every  distinctive  peculiarity  of  dress, 
face,  and  mental  characteristic.  The  livid,  dirty,  and 
snake-like  Marat,  the  cautious,  cold,  and  dandified 
Robespierre,  and  the  huge,  reckless,  and  daring  Dan- 
ton  were  never  before  so  grandly  sketched.  The 
word-pictures  that  Hugo  has  given  of  them  haunt  the 
memory  as  vividly  as  though  one  had  gazed  upon  and 
heard  the  originals  in  the  jjlood-chilling  interview  de- 
scribed. The  work  has  been  translated  by  Frank  Lee 
Benedict,  who  has  performed  his  task  wonderfully  well, 
preserving  the  style  and  manner  of  his  author  with 
remarkable  ekili.— Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


Second-Cousin  Sarah.  A  Novel.  By  F.  W.  Robinson,  Author  of  "  Little  Kate  Kirby,' 
"For  Her  Sake,"  "  Poor  Humanity,"  "  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune,"  "  Carry's  Confession,' 
&c.,  &c     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  75  cents. 


Harper  6-  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


WinclieH's  Doctrine  of  Evolution. 


The  Doctrine  of  Evolution :  Its  Data,  its  Trinciples,  its  Speculations,  and  its  Theistic  Bear- 
ings. By  Alexander  Wincheli.,  LL.D.,  Chancellor  of  Syracuse  University,  Author  of 
"Sketches  of  Creation,"  "Geological  Chart,"  Reports  on  the  Geology  and  Physiography 
of  Michigan,  &c.,  &c.     i2mo.  Cloth,  J»i  oo. 


"In  this  admirable  treatise  Prof.  Wincheli  gives  a 
succinct  statement  of  tlie  doctrine  of  evolution,  to- 
gether with  a  clear  and  impartial  summary  of  the  ar- 
guments on  both  sides  of  the  controversy.  His  object 
being  merely  to  give  a  comprehensive  view  of  the 


subject,  ho  neither  attacks  nor  defends  the  doctrine; 
and  readers  who  want  to  know  what  evolution  means] 
and  to  make  themselves  acquainted  with  the  views 
of  the  scientists  who  have  made  the  doctrine  a  study, 
will  tind  this  volume  an  invaluable  assistant." 


John  Wortliington's  Name.    By  Frank  Lee  Benedict. 

John  Worthington's  Name.  A  Novel.  By  Frank  Lee  Benedict,  Author  of  "  My  Daugh- 
ter Elinor,"  "Miss  Van  Kortland,"  "Miss  Dorothy's  Charge,"  &c.  8vo,  Paper,  %\  oo; 
Cloth,  $1  50. 


Evansclical  Alliance  Conference,  1873. 


History,  Essays,  Orations,  and  Other  Documents  of  the  Sixth  General  Conference  of  the 
Evangelical  Alliance,  held  in  New  York,  October  2-12,  1S73.  Edited  by  Rev.  Philip  Schaff, 
D.D,.  and  Rev.  S.  Iken/Eus  Prime,  D.D.  With  Portraits  of  Rev.  Messrs.  Pronier,  Carrasco, 
and  Cook,  recently  deceased.  8vo,  Cloth,  nearly  Soo  pages,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  $7  co ;  Half 
Calf,  $8  50. 


About  one  hundred  men,  from  various  parts  of  the 
world,  eminent  for  learning,  ability,  and  worth,  hold- 
ing high  rank  in  theology,  phUosophy,  science,  and 
literature,  men  of  genius,  power,  and  fame,  were  care- 
fully selected,  and  invited  to  prepare  themselves,  by 
months  and  years  of  study,  for  the  discussion  of  themes 
(,£  immediate  and  vital  importance.  They  were  chos- 
en, as  the  men  of  thought  and  purpose  best  fitted  to 
produce  Treatises  which  should  exhibit,  in  the  most 
thorough  and  exhaustive  form,  the  Tcrin,  as  sustained 
by  the  Holy  Scripture  aild  the  most  advanced  and  en- 
lightened human  reason.  The  results  of  this  concen- 
trated thought  and  labor  are  embodied  in  this  volume. 

Earely  has  a  volume  issued  from  the  press  which 


contained  a  more  varied  and  extensive  array  of  talent 
and  experience. 

The  vital  topics  of  Evangelical  Theology,  the  delicate 
relations  of  Science  and  Religion,  the  ditlicult  subjects 
of  practical  Benevolence,  Philanthropy,  and  Reform 
are  here  discussed  by  clear,  sound,  and  experienced 
minds.  Pulpit  orators,  of  renown  and  recognized  po- 
sition, have  contributed  to  this  volume  their  best  pro- 
ductions. 

It  is,  in  short,  a  library  of  Christian  thought  and 
learning— the  latest  expression  of  master-minds  upon 
the  important  topics  that  are  now  moving  the  Chris- 
tian world— and  should  be  read  by  all  who  would  be 
educated  in  the  thought  of  the  age. 


Bulvyer's  The  Parisians. 

The  Parisians.  A  Novel.  By  Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton,  Author  of  "  The  Coming 
Race,"  "Kenelm  Chillingly,"  "A  Strange  Story,"  "The  Caxtons,"  "  My  Novel,"  &c.,  &c. 
With  Illustrations  by  Sydney  Hall.     i2mo,  Cloth,  %\  50;  8vo,  Paper,  ^i  00. 

Few  things  in  literature  are  finer  than  the  description 
of  the  social  condition  of  France  which  made  her  so 
easy  a  prey,  in  spite  of  the  bravery  and  the  pride  of 
her  people. — Boston  Saturdaij  Evening  Gazette. 

At  every  step  we  feel  the  charm  of  the  author's  style, 
of  his  incisive  wit,  of  his  keen,  clear  observation.  The 
volume  abounds  in  brilliant  sayings,  as  well  as  pro- 
found ones.  There  are  chapters  and  books  in  "  The 
Parisians"  on  which  the  reader  dwells  with  special 
pleasure,  and  to  which  every  one  will  turn  back  with 
delight  for  a  repernsal ;  but  there  is  none  which  he 
will  feel  inclined  to  skip  in  the  hurry  to  get  on  with 
the  story. — Boston  Journal. 

The  author  has  set  before  himself  the  task  of  paint- 
ing French  society  in  Paris  in  the  last  days  of  the  Sec- 
ond Empire,  and  he  has  accomplished  this  task,  for- 

Through  Fire  and  Water. 

Through  Fire  and  Water.  A  Tale  of  City  Life.  By  Frederick  Jalbot.  Illustrated. 
8vo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

This  is  a  short  but  exciting  narrative  of  London  1  startling  incident  and  pathetic  denonement.— A'.  Y. 
life,  embracing  within  its  narrow  limits  much  of  I  World. 


eigner  as  he  was,  with  a  skill  which  a  born  Freuchmau 
might  well  envy.  As  an  historical  fiction,  "  The  Paris- 
ians" stands  higher  than  "Rienzi"  or  the  "Last  Days 
of  Pompeii."  It  is  a  satire  in  the  sense  that  it  remorse- 
lessly depicts  the  follies  and  crimes  of  the  imperialist 
regime,  and  is  a  far  abler  satire  than  the  "New  Ti- 
mon."  It  is  more  brilliant  in  its  epigrammatic  wit  than 
"Pelham,"  and  smoother  in  the  flow  of  its  narrative 
than  "  Kenelm  Chillingly."  *  *  *  It  will  always  be  treat- 
ed by  students  of  literature  with  the  respect  due  to  a 
brilliant  and  esceptionably  able  novel.— )lo?W,N.Y. 
*  *  *  The  reader  who  takes  it  up  will  not  willingly 
lay  it  down  until  the  last  page  is  reached,  and  he  will 
rise  from  its  perusal  with  the  conviction  that  it  is  a 
work  worthy  of  a  place  by  the  side  of  "The  Cax-, 
tons"  and  "Jly  Novel."— ivmmf/ Post, N.  Y. 


Harper  Cf  Brothers''  List  of  New  Books. 


Aimuiil  Record  of  Science  and  Industry  for  1873. 

Annual  Record  of  Science  and  Industry.  Prepared  by  Prof.  Spencer  F.  Baird,  Assistant- 
Secretary  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution.  With  the  Assistance  of  some  of  the  most  Emi- 
nent Men  of  Science  in  the  United  States.  Large  i2mo,  over  800  pages,  Cloth,  ^2  00. 
(Uniform  with  the  Annual  Records  for  1871  and  1872.) 

The  three  Volumes  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  Five  Dollars. 


The  merits  of  this  Annual  are  becoming  very  gener- 
ally appreciated,  and  it  has  met  with  great  favor  iu 
Europe,  where  sucli  journals  as  the  Athcncsxim,  Tlie 
Academy,  Nature,  The  Quarterly  Journal  of  Science, 
Meclianies'  Magazine,  etc.,  place  it  at  the  head  of  works 
intended  to  give  a  satisfiictory  account  of  the  prog- 
ress of  science  in  all  its  branches. 

Unlike  most  other  works  having  the  same  object, 
it  is  not  a  mere  compilation  of  extracts  from  pub- 
lished journals.  In  every  Instance  the  matter  pre- 
sented has  been  thoroughly  digested  and  re-written 
by  nu  expert,  generally  with  additions  from  other 
sources,  and  often  including  results  of  original  re- 
eearch  on  his  own  part;  the  authority  whence  it  has 
been  derived  or  suggested  being  always  indicated.  A 
list  of  the  journals  most  frequently  used  is  given  at 
the  end  of  the  volume  ;  but,  besides  these  (nearly  one 
hundred  in  uumber),  a  much  larger  series,  in  the  un- 
rivaled library  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  has  been 
at  the  command  of  the  author  and  his  assistants. 

The  volume  is  prefaced  by  a  Summary  of  Progress 
during  the  year,  arranged  under  different  heads,  each 
department  being  prepared  by  some  eminent  special- 
ist.    In  this  Summary  reference  is  made  uot  only  to 


the  articles  actually  presented  in  the  volume,  but  to 
such  others  as  are  necessary  to  give  a  couuccted  idea 
of  the  principal  topics. 

A  work  entitled  The  Annual  0/  Scientific  Discovery 
was  discontinued  when  this  Annual  Kccord  was  com- 
menced. The  Record,  therefore,  although  entirely 
independent  of  its  predecessors,  iu  reality  forms  a 
continuation ;  so  that  those  who  already  possess  the 
Annual  of  Scientific  Discovery  will  do  well  to  secure 
the  present  series. 

A  special  feature  of  the  present  Annual  is  its  Bi- 
ographical Record,  alphabetically  arranged,  of  the 
men  of  science  who  have  died  duriug-^he  year,  at 
home  and  abroad. 

The  value  of  the  work  is  greatly  increased,  as  a 
book  of  reference,  by  a  thorough  systematic  table  of 
contents,  to  which  specialists  can  convenieutly  refer 
for  information  as  to  any  subject  of  study. 

In  addition  to  this,  an  exhaustive  alphabetical  in- 
dex furnishes  the  meaus  of  ready  reference  to  names 
and  topics. 

The  volume  for  1S73  is  much  larger  than  either  of 
its  predecessors,  occupying  over  800  pages,  of  which 
114  are  devoted  to  the  Summary. 


Colonel  Dacre. 


Colonel  Dacre.     A  Novel.     By  the  Author  of  "Caste,"  &c.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

There  is  much  that  is  attractive  botli  in  Colonel 
Dacre  and  the  simple-hearted  girl  whom  he  honors 
with  his  love. — Athenceum,  Loudon. 

Colonel  Dacre  is  a  gentleman  throughout.— PaJi 
Mall  Gazette. 

The  readers  of  "Caste"  who  take  up  this  novel  on 
the  merits  of  "Caste"  will  find  their  expectations 
fully  realized ;  and,  having  once  taken  it  up,  they  will 


not  willingly  lay  it  aside  until  the  last  leaf  has  been 
turned.  The  real  merits  of  the  story  consist  in  the 
elevated  motives  which  it  attributes  to  the  principal 
characters  and  in  the  intensity  with  which  it  describes 
the  longings  and  the  yearnings  which  arise  when  nat- 
ural instincts  and  affections  are  sacrificed  to  supposed 
duty  or  caprice.  Colonel  Dacre  is  a  character  not  un- 
like Colonel  Newcome.— .V.  Y.  World. 


Pet.    A  Book  for  Cliildren. 

Pet;  or,  Pastimes  and  Penalties.    By  H.  R. 
50  Illustrations.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  50, 

Prettily  writteu  and  sure  to  interest  children.  The 
illustrations  are  very  good. — Pall  Mall  Gazette,  Loudou. 

A  charming  little  volume. — Daily  Neics,  London. 

"Pet," the  dearest  little  heroine  who  ever  graced  a 
story-book. — Athcnmum,  London. 

The  book  is  capitally  illustrated. — Examiner,  Lon- 
don. 

This  is  one  of  the  nicest  books  ever  published,  as 
pretty  as  a  pond-lily,  and  quite  as  fragrant.  Nothing 
finer  could  be  imagined  than  such  a  combination  of 
fresh  pages  and  fair  pictures  ;  and  while  children  will 
rejoice  over  it— which  is  much  better  than  crying  for  it 
—it  is  a  book  that  can  be  read  with  pleasure  even  by 
bald  and  bearded  boys,  and  by  girls  who  have  become 
grandmothers. — Evening  Traveller,  Boston. 


Haweis,  Author  of  "  Music  and  Morals."    With 

Evidently  the  work  of  a  writer  who  is  at  heart  a 
boy  yet,  and  gains  from  this  fact  a  freshnecs  and 
truth. — Hour,  London. 

A  delightful  story  for  children.— SfofswiaJi. 

It  is  the  relation  of  a  series  of  incidents  in  the  lives 
of  four  children,  told  with  rare  ease  and  naturalness 
of  style,  making  a  most  interesting  and  agreeable 
child's  book.  Each  one  of  the  little  peojjle  iu  it  has  a 
distinct  character,  which  is  brought  out  by  the  diff'er- 
ent  chapters  of  the  story  with  a  skill  that  can  hardly 
fail  to  furnish  genuine  entertainment  for  the  class  of 
readers  whom  the  book  aMvesees.— Saturday  Evening 
Gazette,  Boston. 

It  is  a  book  to  charm,  to  teach,  and  to  set  young 
folk  Ih'mkiug.— Philadelphia  Press. 


"Ship  Ahoy!" 


A  Yarn  in  Thirty-si.x  Cable  Lengths.     Illustrated  by  Wallis  Mackay  and  Frederick 
Waddy.    Svo,  Paper,  40  cents. 

The  book  is  capitally  written,  and  exceedingly  in-  unique  in  their  way,  especially  the  initial  letters  at  the 

teresting  in  plot.    It  is  told  with  a  certain  quaintness  head  of  the  chapters.    The  spirit  and  the  freshness 

that  is  very  attractive,  and  in  its  more  serious  phases  of  the  narrative  will  highly  recommend  it.  —  Satur- 

is  earnest  and  manly  in  tone.    The  illustrations  are  day  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 


Harper  os^  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Viiiceiil's  Laiiil  of  the  White  Elephant. 


The  Land  of  the  White  Elephant :  Sights  and  Scenes  in  Southeastern  Asia.  A  Personal 
Narrative  of  Travel  and  Adventure  in  Farther  India,  embracing  the  Countries  of  Burma 
Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Cochin-China  (1S71-2).  By  Frank  Vincent,  Jr.  Magnificently 
illustrated  with  Map,  Plans,  and  numerous  Woodcuts.     Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

It  is  a  narrative  of  travel,  uiKlcrtakcii  liy  its  author, 
an  American  f^entlemen,  to  Farther  India,  and  is  full 
of  valuable  iufonnation,  which  is  conveyed  in  a  most 
attractive  manner.  The  frankness  and  simplicity  that 
distinguish  the  narrative  throughout  create  an  effect 
which  leaves  a  very  pleasant  impression  on  the  read- 
er's mind.  Mr.  Vincent's  account  embraces  voyages  to 
Burma,  Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Cochin  •China,  and 
abounds  to  overflowing  in  hitherto  unpublished  facts 
regarding  these  places.  Every  thing  is  told  in  the 
most  natural  manner  imaginable,  and  there  is  not  a 
page  that  shows  the  slightest  evidence  of  padding  or 
cramming,  for  the  mere  sake  of  producing  a  bulky  vol- 
ume. There  is  a  highly  nicturesque  account  of  the 
grand  ruins  to  be  found  at  Angkor,  and  a  remarkably 
entertaining  description  of  tlio  jialacc  at  Bangkok. 
The  author  contrives  to  inspire  liis  reader  with  the 
same  interest  and  enthusiasm  in  hearing  of  these  sights 
as  he  himself  experienced  in  seeing  them.  There  ia 
here  but  little,  if  any,  of  that  tiresome  moralizing  and 
reflection  that  make  so  many  books  of  travel  at  once 
a  labor  and  an  exasperation  to  the  reader.  On  the 
contrary,  Mr.  Vincent  simply  describes  what  he  has 
seen  In  a  frank  and  unafl'ected  manner,  and  leaves  one 
to  draw  his  own  deductions.  He  has  written  nothing 
that  is  not  of  special  interest  to  his  subject,  and  his 
intelligence  as  a  writer  is  not  inferior  to  his  closeness 
as  an  observer.  The  book  is  profusely  illustrated. — 
Boston  Saturday  I'h'nung  Gazette. 

No  former  traveler  or  writer  has  seen  and  described 
these  far-off  lands  so  thoroughly  and  so  intelligently. 
In  fact,  the  pages  are  like  revelations  of  a  new  and 
marvelous  world.  The  illustrations,  which  are  very 
numerous  and  well  executed,  are  as  remarkable  as  th» 
letter-press ;  for  some  of  them  show  architectural 
structures,  of  a  very  remote  antiquity,  that  are  amaz- 
ing for  magnitude  and  splendor.  The  "  Nagkou  Wat " 
is  the  most  extraordinary  of  these  structures,  and  it  is 
the  subject  of  many  striking  pictures  and  diagrams. — 
Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

The  book  is  very  simply  and  cleverly  written.  It  is 
a  truthful  narrative  of  a  journey,  very  seldom  made, 
through  a  most  interesting  and  little  known  country. 
The  illustrations  are  beautifully  engraved;  they  look 
almost  like  photographs. — Bakon  de  lIuuNEn. 


A  not  unwelcome  addition  to  our  knowledge  of  the 
ludo-Chinese  peninsulas.  It  is  written  in  a  clear  and 
unafl'ected  style.  It  is  descriptive  of  forests,  lakes, 
rivers,  capitals,  and  ruins.  It  shows  the  author  to  be 
possessed  of  some  of  the  qualities  indispensable  to 
successful  exploration— energy,  endurance  of  heat, 
fatigue,  and  petty  annoyances,  good-hinnor,  quickness 
of  observation,  and  intelligence.  Its  value  is  enhanced 
by  two  or  three  maps  throwing  light  on  some  disputed 
points  of  geography,  as  well  as  by  many  excellent  en- 
gravings, which  place  before  us  the  i>agodas  with  their 
wonderful  tracery  and  the  reigning  monarchs  in  their 
robes  of  state.— .VnftoJn^  Jlcvieu;  London. 

This  is  in  many  respects  a  model  book  of  travel. 
For  once  a  traveler  eschews  any  thing  like  book- 
making,  and,  although  Mr.  Vincent  visited  India  and 
China,  Ceylon  and  Japan,  he  limits  his  narrative  to 
lauds  that  are  far  less  familiar  to  us.  The  route  he 
describes  in  his  volume  led  him  up  the  Irrawaddy  to 
independent  Burma;  thence,  returning  to  Rangoon, 
he  made  the  circuit  of  the  Malay  Peninsula,  and,  after 
a  visit  to  the  kingdom  of  Siam,  made  his  way  through 
Cambodia  to  the  French  settlements  in  Cochin-Chiua. 
The  volume  is  profusely  and  excellently  illustrated, 
and  convenient  maps  add  to  its  value.  Mr.  Vincent 
gives  a  plain  but  pleasant  account  of  all  that  struck 
him  as  best  worth  noting.  *  *  *  In  many  ways  the  jour- 
ney was  extremely  interesting,  and,  what  is  more  to 
our  present  purpose,  it  was  a  journey  extremely  inter- 
esting to  read  about.  *  *  *  The  whole  of  his  book  is 
worth  reading,as  giving  the  latest  observations  of  an  in- 
telligent traveler  over  countries  that  are  rapidly  chang- 
ing their  characteristics. — Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 

We  are  inclined  to  assign  to  this  book  a  place  of 
foremost  interest  among  the  travel  books  of  the  year. 
The  architectural  and  sculptural  plates  alone  add  im- 
mensely to  its  \ii\i\e.— Examiner,  London. 

Farther  India  is  still  more  or  less  a  sealed  book  to 
most  of  us,  and  one  could  not  desire  a  more  pleasant 
tutor  in  fresh  geographical  lore  than  our  author.  He 
won  our  heart  at  once  by  plunging  in  mcdias  res,  In- 
stead of  devoting  a  chapter  to  the  outward  voyage ; 
and  he  tells  us  sensibly  and  intelligent!)-,  in  a  natural 
and  unaffected  style,  what  he  saw  and  heard. — John 
Lull,  London. 

Taken  at  the  Flood. 

Taken  at  the  Flood.  A  Novel.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon,  Author  of  "  Aurora  Floyd," 
"  Birds  of  Prey,"  "  Charlotte's  Inheritance,"  "  Publicans  and  Sinners,"  "  To  the  Bitter  End," 
&c.,  &:c.     Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

Field's  Memories  of  Many  Men  and  of  Some  Women. 

Memories  of  Many  Men  and  of  Some  Women  :  being  Personal  Recollections  of  Emperors, 
Kings,  Queens,  Princes,  Presidents,  Statesmen,  Authors,  and  Artists,  at  Home  and  Abroad, 
during  the  last  Thirty  Years.   By  Maunsell  B.  Field.    i2mo.  Cloth,  $2  00. 


The  personal  sketches  of  eminent  characters  are  so 
c'everly  drawn  that  we  have  the  originals  before  us.— 
Philadelphia  Pres/?. 

Detailing  in  a  frank,  unpretending  way  a  host  of  in- 
teresting anecdotes.— X  1'.  World. 


The  book  is  very  cleverly  executed,  and  is  enter- 
taining in  no  ordinary  degree.  *  *  *  He  has  preserved 
plenty  of  anecdotes  which  embody  much  that  is  pithy 
and  pungent  about  them.— Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette. 


Lottie  Darling.    By  John  Cordy  Jcaffrcson. 

Lottie  Darling.     A  Novel.     By  John  Cordy  Jeaffreson,  Author  of  "  Isabel,"  "  Not  Dead 
Yet,"  "Live  it  Down,"  "  Olive  l^lake's  Good  Work,"  &c.     Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
A  story  of  healthy  tone,  and  readable  throughout—  I      This  story  is  well  told.    It  opens  up  a  phase  of  life 
Examiner,  London.  I  hitherto  untouched  by  any  novelist.— Dai^ir  yeio.-i,  Lon. 


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